


The Book of Silence

by SilentAuror



Series: The Book of Silence/Rosa Felicia [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Domesticity, First Time, M/M, New Relationship, POV: John Watson, Porn, Praise Kink, Profanity, Romance, Series 4 Fix-It, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, So much kissing, Virgin!Sherlock, casefic, cases, first person POV, part-time parentlock, post-series 4, realistically slow build, so much brunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 12:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 60,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14378574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: As spring blooms in London, John and Sherlock begin to take new cases and cautiously negotiate this new phase of life with John living at Baker Street again. Despite how well it's all going, John struggles to forgive himself for the way he treated Sherlock following Mary’s death as well as trying to figure out how to finally put his long-time feelings for Sherlock into words.





	1. Chapter 1

**The Book of Silence**

 

I ask myself sometimes how I got to this point in my life. 

This point would be… here. Back at Baker Street, for almost three months now. Nearly divorced (but she died and beat me to it, leaving me to wallow in my own guilt over having wanted to leave, over an affair that never even happened, Christ, it was just a smile and some bloody texts, it’s not like we ever even met, but tell _that_ to my conscience), with a child I barely know, honestly, a history of war zone trauma and trust issues, then familial violence and alcoholism before that, and now sharing a flat with a man whose significance to me would be rather difficult to label. We say best friends. I do, at any rate. He literally refers to me as his “John”. Probably not aware of the prostitution-related meaning, but that’s half the humour: the things he misses. A man who can see through a wall of lies to pluck out the two strands of truth that contradict it all and pull the entire thing down in two words, or who will deduce a poisoning from the way the air in the room makes his eyebrows tingle, but can’t reliably remember the current Prime Minister, what year it is, or the names of people he’s known for years. 

He’d say it’s all a question of priority, which makes me feel odd because if there’s one thing he’s never forgotten, it’s my name. Or anything else about me, down to specific details that I never noticed myself until he pointed them out. I’m not talking about the _depth and complexity of (my) jumpers_ , either; I mean shit like what order I typically eat the things on my plate in, or a particular muscle in my face that strains when I’m trying not to laugh, or how hungry I am or full my bladder is. And those are the things he’s said out loud. God only knows what else he can tell just from looking at me. It doesn’t bear thinking about, frankly, but at the same time, I can privately admit that his level of attention is… flattering. At the very least. He’s also stopped not noticing when I leave the room or the house now. Haven’t tried leaving the country yet, not without him, at least. We’ve only left the country once since he came back, and that was to chase down my criminal wife before she killed too many people. 

She and I didn’t leave the country for the honeymoon. We went to Brighton. Cue Sherlock going, _Ugh, Brighton. Boring. Predictable. Overrun with tourists and not even hot enough to swim yet. What’s the point?_ and me torn between laughter and sheer exasperation, not explaining to him what the bloody point of a honeymoon is. Judging from the blog post he broke into my blog to write, he definitely knew, though. ‘Sex holiday’, indeed. If only he even knew how little of that there was, or how right (damn him) he was all along about Brighton being boring and not all that warm and overrun with tourists. It somehow felt both like we were trying too hard, yet also not trying hard enough. On the latter score, maybe we should have gone somewhere tropical, only it was expensive. Not that Brighton was cheap, but still. We saved on airfare, at least. As for trying too hard, honeymoons are a bit like Valentine’s Day: too much pressure to pretend you have the perfect relationship, that it’s precisely what you wanted all along, and that your sex life is fucking _brilliant_. When in fact you’ve just found out that somehow, against all odds, she seems to be pregnant and you’re trying to hide your dismay, and still get it up to give it a convincing go. 

She accused me of being disappointed that Sherlock wasn’t there, and it was hard to deny. To this day, I wonder a bit uneasily if that was partly why I decided against going anywhere fancier. Which is to say: farther. He always used to follow me everywhere and I guess I was half-expecting him to follow me there, too. But he didn’t, and yeah, I guess I was disappointed. His stupid blog post made me miss him and we’d only been gone three days, just long enough for buyer’s remorse to be setting in with vengeance, and the prospect of spending the rest of my days married to Mary – and just to drive the point home even further, now a baby, too – dismayingly disheartening. 

I can’t say that I’d never wanted kids. But I never actively wanted them, either. It wasn’t something I ever gave much thought to. I grinned like an idiot when Sherlock said it (of course he could deduce _that_ , too), because you’re supposed to be happy about news like that. But then it began to sink in: a baby. Sleepless nights, nappies filled with shit, constant howling, vomit, and worst of all, having to stay bloody home all the bloody time. It crossed my mind as I was sitting there on one of those many decks along the beach, huddled into my coat and trying to forget that Sherlock had specifically said how cold the beach would still be in May, that I never minded staying home when it was Baker Street and Sherlock. I couldn’t work out why it should be different with Mary and a kid. But I knew it was, and just tried not to think about it. I’d made my bed. 

Speaking of which, the honeymoon sex was… lukewarm, I have to admit. I mean, it was fine. The old joke is that even bad sex is still good sex, right? It shouldn’t have been so much effort, though. To try to get in the mood, make it romantic for Mary. Make sure she got off, which she didn’t every time. I just couldn’t manage it every single time. For me it was more about scratching an itch. It could have been anyone. And I knew it even then. 

The three weeks following your wedding are not the ideal time to realise that you’ve utterly fucked up, that you knew damned well what you wanted all along, that this was never it, that even if what you wanted was never going to be possible, trying for a Plan B was not the best of ideas. I was bored on the honeymoon. I can say that now: I was bored out of my skull without Sherlock. I wished he _had_ followed me to Brighton, not that Mary would have let me go tearing off with him. I consoled myself by thinking that at least he was probably missing me too, if the comments on his ridiculous blog post were anything to go by. Mary didn’t want me to keep checking the comments and that, but I’d wait until she was asleep and then check on my phone. I saw that last, forlorn little exchange between him and Mrs H, her offering to go up and play board games with him, and Sherlock accepting, of all things. It made me feel unaccountably sad, and guilty too, like I’d abandoned him. I deprived us both, I guess. 

And then I came back to find him: a) dishevelled, dirty, and high, b) apparently dating Mary’s maid of honour, and c) embroiled in a case without me. I was furious. I could see myself from the outside, overreacting, obviously, blatantly jealous and unable to hide it, left out, angry and concerned in equal measure about the drug use, and utterly unable to process any of it or sort it on my own, but then there wasn’t even time because the next thing I knew, Sherlock got shot in the heart and my entire world came crashing down around me for a second time. I remember standing there that night, outside the operating theatre, willing him to live, all of my energy poured into it, anger and pleading and screaming all reverberating around the inside of my own skull. _Don’t you fucking DARE, Sherlock! I swear to God that if you leave me again, I will follow you into Hell and drag you back!_ My fists clenched and sweating, watching the doctors fail to revive him. God. Worst fucking night of my life, right along with the one after Bart’s. I don’t even let myself think about that one. I can’t. It’s still too painful. 

And then, Mary. In retrospect, I could see that Sherlock did the only thing he could have done. He knew I wouldn’t stop asking who shot him – with a shot to the heart, it would have been pretty hard for him to deny that he saw his shooter, and he knows I’m not _that_ stupid, for all his jokes. He knew I had to be told it was Mary, too. She never believed I had any right to know the truth. Sherlock did. That was always one of the biggest differences between them. He’s lied to me before, but always for a good reason, frequently to protect me. I remember asking Lestrade, stupidly, _Who would he bother protecting?_ , as if there’s ever been anyone else. Mary only lied to keep what she wanted. Funny how it barely even mattered to me that what she wanted was me. I knew it was over then. That it had never really been anything real, not to me. I only went back because I knew I had to. 

To be perfectly honest, the last two years have not brought out the best in me. Now that the dust has settled, now that things are quiet again, with me back at Baker Street where I belong, it’s occurred to me more than once that I haven’t said or done nearly enough. To make amends, I mean. It just happens now and then: I’ll be shaving or something and catch my own eye in the mirror and think, _You shit. You utter shit. What about that day at the hospital, then? What about hearing Smith say that he was showing Sherlock his ‘favourite room’? What about the way you beat him to a pulp, after Molly said he was weeks away from death?_ I knew I’d told Sherlock that Mary’s death wasn’t his fault, but I hadn’t said anything more. That I was so fucking sorry I’d blamed him for something that wasn’t remotely his fault in the first place. I hadn’t said how sorry I was for putting that on him, for driving him into despair, even though he claims that the addiction was part of his plan. He never said, _to save you_ , but he might as well have. He was following Mary’s fucking moronic instructions. I should have known. I groaned when I saw it, then put it all together and broke every traffic law in London trying to get to him, to save him before it was too late. But I didn’t say enough. I hid behind my own stiff upper lip and said a lot of rot about Irene Adler that I don’t believe or want. Somehow I twisted it, again: said all the stuff I meant about Sherlock and shifted it onto Mary, made it sound acceptable. And his eyes – they were so vulnerable that night, and I almost – I almost said the real thing. But of course I didn’t. I could still feel Mary’s presence somehow, and I couldn’t ever say any of that with her watching. And she was, at least in my head, and my awareness of her made her presence a real thing for both Sherlock and I. She was there, coming between us. Preventing me from saying the real stuff, the stuff I needed to say that night. The stuff I’ve needed to say for years now. 

That night was the last time I saw her, though. She disappeared after that. It was as though once I’d openly confessed the affair-that-wasn’t-quite, that pretend version of her faded away. The truth was out. I knew it wasn’t her. I knew all along that it was just – myself, just some fucked up projection of my own thoughts onto a person I simply wanted to believe was a better person than she was, because accepting that she was what she really was would have meant acknowledging the incredible depth and enormity of _my_ error. I thought she was someone who enjoyed baking and cats and having a light-to-moderate level discussion about politics now and then. Instead, she turned out to be someone who killed people for money. Not politics, not patriotism or a genuinely just cause, like standing up for the oppressed or something: just money. Every time I debated with myself over whether or not to go back to her, after she shot Sherlock, that’s the block that kept coming back to trip me up. It was never some kind of noble sacrifice. It was for _money_. Sometimes the very thought of it would make me gag. That, and the entire nightmare of Sherlock’s very near death – twice. (Trying to sound calm in the ambulance, my voice coming out unnaturally steady as his vitals flickered on the monitor… it still doesn’t bear thinking about to this day.) I went back because I wanted to not fail my own sense of integrity: I’d sworn a vow, even if she’d broken hers. And there was a baby coming. A baby I felt tremendously apprehensive about, but who was genetically mine, and what kind of shit leaves a baby, for Christ’s sake? I knew I had to go back. But God, I didn’t want to. 

But all that’s over. I moved back into Baker Street pretty soon after all that mess with Eurus Holmes. About two weeks into trying to juggle life with a baby and sitting out cases, though Sherlock awkwardly (nicely, I should say) didn’t take the majority of them, knowing I couldn’t come with, his parents had us over for Sunday dinner and suggested that maybe they could keep Rosie for the majority of the time. I saw in retrospect how nervous they were about asking, Mrs Holmes in particular. They didn’t want to overstep, plus they openly referenced their failure with their own daughter and Mr Holmes explained that they were sort of looking for redemption, for a do-over. They also made all of the logical arguments about Baker Street hardly being the safest place in the world for an infant, given that every criminal in the world knows the address, plus if we’re being blunt, neither Sherlock or I make particularly good parental figures. I can do it, when I’m not busy wallowing in guilt and borderline alcoholism, and to be fair, Sherlock’s not half bad, either. He carefully kept out of the entire discussion. All he’d say was that it was my decision, that Rosie was perfectly welcome to stay with us at Baker Street if that was what I wanted. He refused to tell me what he wanted, stubbornly repeating that it was my daughter and my decision. I wanted to say yes, except how do you say yes to that?? It’s tantamount to admitting that you’re kind of a shit father and have got priorities that you’d prefer to come before your one-year-old daughter who just lost her mother. Mrs Holmes made the argument for stability, for their availability in their retirement, for the safety of their peaceful little village. Their desire for grandchildren. _You know my children, John_ , she’d said, those blue eyes rather direct. _You know as well as I do that I’m not going to be getting grandchildren out of any of them any time soon._ It was as close as anyone in Sherlock’s family has ever come to admitting, at least in my presence, that Sherlock and Mycroft aren’t exactly ‘normal’ when it comes to human relationships. And sex. And the less said about Eurus, the better. 

So I said yes. It made sense. We’ve got Rosie every other weekend, on the strict agreement that we don’t take cases for those four days every month. There’s a whole security hullaballoo that makes it possible, too. So far there’s been no overlap between our cases and our weekends having Rosie at Baker Street. Once Sherlock even snarled to Lestrade, on a Friday around noon, that we had to get the case wrapped up before six o’clock, because that was when his parents were arriving to deliver Rosie for the weekend, and to everyone’s surprise he pulled it off, like a miracle. We both smelled of the sewers and were dirty from head to toe, but we made it just in time, both of us still with wet hair from our showers when the downstairs door opened and Sherlock’s parents came up. 

And otherwise, it’s just the two of us. 

It’s… a whole world of possibilities. That’s one thing that makes maybe both of us feel slightly apprehensive sometimes. And yet, nothing out of the ordinary’s ever happened. We cook, we take cases, we putter around, we go out to eat, and otherwise… it’s all just sort of normal. Normal, with an ocean of things that we simply never discuss floating somewhere just below the surface. Sometimes I wonder if it will ever break through, confront us with all the stuff we don’t say. But so far it hasn’t. 

It's hard to talk about it, even within my own head. In a way, the possibilities have only ever existed in a purely fantastical way. Sherlock’s not like that, doesn’t do that sort of thing. Unless he changed somewhere along the line – I mean, first there was Irene Adler, then Janine, so at this point, I don’t even know what I think is true. There was Mycroft’s barb that day at the palace that strongly implied that Sherlock was a virgin at the time, but that was before both women, wasn’t it? Janine was in his bedroom, and then I don’t even know what I think happened after that, in the bath. But then he said it was all fake. I just don’t know how far it went before Mary shot him and curtailed the whole thing. I’d rather believe that he wouldn’t have slept with someone just to convince her to marry him, but on the other hand, who would accept a proposal from someone she’d only dated for three or four weeks without having slept with in this day and age? Maybe I’m just being cynical. Maybe there are still people who wait for marriage, but no one I know. Maybe Sherlock told her _he_ wanted to wait for marriage and that was why she said yes so readily. What do I know? 

As for Irene Adler, I just plain don’t know. I left them alone, because it seemed only decent. She’d turned up in his bed, after all; there wasn’t much room for doubt as to her intentions on _that_ score. The part I don’t have any idea about is what Sherlock’s intentions, or hopes were. Or what actually happened. He didn’t seem any different later. Just said that he’d managed to stop her from bringing the country to its knees. It was the way he said it, though, as though he’d got the better of her in some way that left him feeling particularly smug and satisfied about the whole thing that made me wonder, if that game of theirs was even better than sex or something. I can’t see Irene Adler _not_ making something sexual. Sherlock, though… the truth is that it frustrates me terribly that I don’t know. I never have. ‘Married to his work’ is what he told me, that first dinner at Angelo’s. Was I asking him out at the time, or just – probing? Honestly, I still couldn’t say to this day. What would I have done if he’d turned that direct, blue gaze on me and answered my question about him having a boyfriend with _Not yet, but if you’re asking, I’d be amenable_? 

But that’s been me all along: probing, but never asking directly. It’s not that I’m not curious. God knows I have been, for far too long now. I’ve never said the word _bisexual_ in my head. I might have admitted _bi-curious_ if someone had made me. Can a person claim to be bisexual without ever having tried the other side? I don’t know. It’s so easy to hide it, or maybe it was until I met Sherlock. I don’t know how good I was after that. At keeping it a secret, I mean. I kept up a steady stream of girlfriends but they all saw through it, too. 

Mary must have seen it, too. She never called me out on it, never directly, but she’d quip these little barbs sometimes, ones that I never followed up on, never made her explain. I’d just grit my teeth and pretend I hadn’t heard the entendre, the implication. Especially as they were all made in reference to Sherlock specifically. 

Sherlock wasn’t the first, but if I’d had my occasional crushes in the past, no one ever made me seriously consider pursuing it, making it more than the stuff of masturbatory fantasy until I met him. I almost did, so many times – put it into words, made a move. There were moments when I still think it could have happened, maybe. Like the stag night. God. My own stag night, for my marriage to Mary! If he’d only known how close I came to doing something at last – leaning forward to shut him up with my mouth, or dropping to my knees and burying my face in his crotch. _God_ , I was close! And the memory of it, of how close I came, simultaneously drowned me in shame and made me want to scream out of regret that I hadn’t. It made me intensely cranky the next morning, I’ll say. Between that and the pounding in my temples, I was in a fine mood, while Sherlock had already moved on to the case itself. Was he even aware that the possibilities were hovering between us there, so, so close to becoming realities? Would they have, though? 

I fucking hate not knowing. I hate that I’m the person on the planet that he’s closest to, and I don’t have the first fucking clue when it comes to him. I don’t know whether he touches himself, watches porn, or if so, what kind, or if he’s ever been with anyone, male or female. I don’t know what he would like, what he’d be like. Maybe that entire part of him just doesn’t even exist. Maybe his over-developed cerebrum just engulfed his nucleus accumbens and left no room for anything as fleeting and unimportant as sex or love. Maybe Mycroft had it operated out of him as a child. I wouldn’t put anything past him. 

All I know now is that we’re back here, together, seemingly for good this time, and there are questions that would be obvious for any other two people. Maybe he thinks I’m straight and that he’s asexual and that therefore said questions have rendered themselves moot. Maybe he knows that I’ve thought about him obsessively, compulsively, over the years, and is just too kind to point it out. Kind: hardly the word one would normally use for Sherlock Holmes, except that I’ve finally come to see that he really can be when he wants to. Especially to me. So then: what? 

Downstairs, the door opens and closes again. It’s Sherlock: I know his step by now, the same way that he knows mine. I’m sat at the desk, supposedly working on an article for a medical journal that pays nicely. Not that we need the money. I say ‘we’; he’s made it entirely clear that my trying to pay half the rent is insulting and he always pays for everything else, too. Still. He’s got Mycroft working on unlocking Mary’s financial accounts, as he seems certain that she must have had other money, but until they get anywhere with that, I’d rather not have nothing to my name. I stopped working at the clinic when Mary died and haven’t been back. Now that I’m back here, I haven’t said anything about starting back and neither has Sherlock. I think he likes having me available for cases, though he hasn’t said, exactly. Another thing we just don’t talk about. 

He appears at the top of the stairs and holds up four bags of shopping. “I got the shopping,” he says unnecessarily, offering it as though for approval. 

I have to admit, I _am_ surprised. Normally Mrs Hudson just goes before we can, or sometimes we go together, on our way home from somewhere or other. “Oh, good,” I say, giving him the approval he’s clearly after. I get to my feet to go over and help him put it away and add, “That’s fantastic. We were out of a bunch of stuff.” 

I can’t help it; I’m bizarrely over-fond of watching the way being praised makes his cheeks pink up like that, and I’m rewarded by it again now. He ducks his face but I still catch the ghost of his pleased smile. “I noticed last night,” he says briskly, setting the bags down on the table and rapidly beginning to unpack them. 

He’s making for the fridge, so I go for some of the non-perishables and start putting them away in the cupboards. “I could have come with you,” I say. “You didn’t tell me you were going to go.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I was already out, at the lab. I thought of it on the way home, thought it might make it easier to make lunch if we had actual food.” 

“Brilliant,” I say, and watch the colour warm his face again very slightly. It’s like a drug. “What are we making, then?” 

“Well, I thought we’d decide together,” Sherlock says, raking his fingers through his curls. “It depends on how hungry you are.” 

I shrug in turn. “I could eat now, but I’m not famished. It’s only just eleven. Did you have something in mind?” 

Sherlock hesitates, and that’s when I know he _did_ have something planned already. “Well – there were eggplants on sale, and I thought of that time when we tried that eggplant lasagna at that gluten-free restaurant we went to by accident. So I bought eggplants.” 

He pulls out a bag containing three of them, large and darkly purple and shiny. I try not to laugh. “I see,” I say. “Did you also happen to buy ground beef and ricotta and mozzarella and pasta sauce?” 

“I did,” Sherlock says cautiously, “but we don’t have to make that, John. And of course I didn’t buy pasta sauce. I bought the _makings_ of pasta sauce.” 

“Right. Pardon me,” I say, rolling my eyes a little. “Pre-made pasta sauce in a jar is far too pedestrian for the likes of Sherlock Holmes.” 

He actually looks a little discomfited. “I just think it tastes better made fresh,” he says. “Fewer preservatives, too.”

I want to go to him and hug him, apologise for being a prick when he’s already gone and got all the ingredients. But of course I don’t. “No – I’m just – of course we can make it however you like,” I say, making a hash of it. “Do you want to make it completely without noodles, then? Just use the eggplant?” 

“Whatever you would prefer,” Sherlock says, too quickly, too relieved to have the awkward moment past, and I want to kick myself. 

“Your call,” I say, trying to smile. “I’m just the sous-chef here.” 

That makes him frown, though. “John… you know I don’t – ” He stops, those long fingers gripping his hip. 

“I’m kidding,” I say, trying to salvage the moment. “I just meant – you know more about making this, that’s all. Just – point me in the right direction.” 

He relaxes then, and somehow it’s okay. We google recipes, decide on a procedure, then divvy up the tasks and get down to it. I never liked cooking when I lived alone, or with Mary. Mary and I never cooked together, just took turns. And she would mildly criticise whatever I made, even when faintly praising it. _This is good, John. Did you use a recipe this time, like I suggested?_ Sherlock and I frequently cook together, though, especially this time. This is our third time living together, and so far it’s been the best. There was the first year and a half, then the six months following Mary’s shot, and now this. 

I slice the eggplants in long, thin slices and think of the eggplant emoji on my phone, which leads me directly to thinking about Sherlock’s cock. He’s got one: that much I know. I just don’t know what he does with it. (Stop it. Not now, with him right here. Jesus.) Holding the firm smoothness of the eggplant with that in mind is almost enough to make me hard. I’ve never done that: touched one. A cock, I mean. Not besides my own, that is. Obviously I do that, these days more than ever, with no one else in the picture. I slide my hand down the side of the vegetable and think of touching his, wonder what it would feel like in my palm. (For God’s sake, stop it!!) I grit my teeth and force myself to focus on the task at hand. Following Sherlock’s direction, I salt the slices and lay them on a tray to drain. Sherlock is chopping tomatoes in studious, efficient silence next to me. “Did you turn the oven on?” I ask, to break the silence. 

He nods. “Almost to broiling, for the eggplant.” 

“Great.” I watch his hands for a moment, mesmerised by them, then clear my throat. “Is there something I can do for the sauce? Chop something?” 

“Sure.” Sherlock indicates a packet of fresh basil with his chin. “Give those a rough chop, if you like. Or you can chop some garlic.”

“I can do both.” I pick up a bulb of garlic and the basil and start with the garlic, peeling and chopping it the way he’s taught me to. “How much garlic?” 

“Lots,” Sherlock says, rather unscientifically. (If we were lovers, I’d tease him about that, and the little jabs would escalate, along with physical ones, and soon enough food prep would turn into kitchen sex.)

But we’re not lovers. “Four cloves, do you think?” I ask, doing my best to keep my voice normal. 

“That sounds about right.” Sherlock is quiet, too, and I wonder what he’s thinking and not saying. 

We could write a book of the things we don’t say, I think cynically, and go on chopping in silence. 

*** 

The lasagna turns out perfectly. Or rather, I think it’s perfect and Sherlock worries that it’s too watery. Despite having been salted and roasted, the eggplant did give off still more liquid. Perhaps we didn’t roast it long enough. Nonetheless, it hardly affects the flavour and I say this. It’s delicious. We made a salad to go with it, mixed rocket and spinach with toasted almonds and slices of clementine, with a lemony vinaigrette, and that’s delicious, too, light and crisp and a perfect balance for our meaty, noodle-less lasagna. I compliment Sherlock on the sauce and he brushes it off, saying that we made it together. 

“What’s up for this afternoon?” I ask. “Did Molly have anything interesting for you?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, nothing. There’s nothing on the blog, either. What is it about late April that’s made London’s criminals so lazy?” 

I laugh at this and he gives a reluctant smile. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe we should do something fun, then. Something we wouldn’t normally have time for with either a case or Rosie to manage.” 

“Something fun,” Sherlock repeats, as though the notion is foreign to him. His face frowns. “Such as?” 

I’m at a loss, and don’t want to suggest anything that could sound too much like a date or something. “I don’t know,” I start. 

Sherlock shoots me a strange look, and just then his phone pings with a text. He picks it up. “Lestrade,” he says, with a touch of relief at the narrow escape from our awkward conversation. He gets to his feet at once. “We’re needed.” 

Fuck it. This is more fun, anyway. “What is it?” I’m on my feet without realising I got up. 

“Double homicide.” He sees me reaching for the plates. “Leave the dishes. Let’s go!” 

Fine by me. With a bit of luck, maybe Mrs Hudson will come up, click her tongue over our sloppiness, and do the washing up for us while we’re out. I move automatically, grabbing for my coat and patting at the pocket for my Sig, then hurry down the stairs after Sherlock. He’s waiting, albeit impatiently, holding open the door of a cab that must have appeared miraculously – he was only ten steps ahead of me, for God’s sake! – and follows me into the backseat, barking out an address at the driver. I don’t recognise the street. “Where?” I ask him, keeping my voice down. 

“Knightsbridge. A tiny little street called Trevor Square,” Sherlock says, and as usual I don’t ask how the hell he knows the name of every back alley of London. 

Instead, I make an intelligent sound and nod. 

“Right behind Harrods,” Sherlock adds, so it must not have been all that convincing. 

“Right,” I say quickly. “And the – crime?” I curtail the question with a cautious glance the driver’s way. 

Sherlock lowers his voice. “A double, both the husband and wife are dead.” 

“Any leads so far?” 

“Lestrade didn’t say. Presumably not, or he wouldn’t have involved us. Although there are generally dozens right under his nose,” Sherlock adds, scoffing, but he’s working to suppress his excitement. 

I almost to touch him and tell him that I share it. It’s true: my blood’s up, pounding in my veins. This is far more fun than anything I could have suggested, though sometimes the pretense of normalcy is nice. I keep my hands to myself (obviously) and snerk at his comment about Lestrade. “Household staff, then?” I ask, doing my bit to ask the right question, prompt the avalanche of brilliance, though obviously he hasn’t even seen the crime scene yet. 

He gives me a look of combined admiration and something like pleased pride that I’m already asking questions, so it must have been the right one. “We can’t know anything until we get there,” he says, as the driver turns right. Sherlock leans forward. “Take the next left,” he instructs. “Number twenty-six. Here!” He pays hastily, doesn’t wait for change, and I follow him out of the taxi. 

The front of the house has been duly taped off. Sally doesn’t even bother with a smart comment, just rolls her eyes and holds the tape up for us both. “Thanks,” I say, but she doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Probably ticked that Lestrade called us so soon, then. Too bad: as Sherlock would certainly point out, if they were better at their jobs, Lestrade wouldn’t need us. 

There was a time when it was only Sherlock they needed. When I look back, sometimes it still surprises me how quickly we became a unit in terms of this work. And yet, as I learned in that year following my return to Mary, after Sherlock was reprieved from Serbia, he was still quite capable of cutting me out of it and carrying on by himself. We were… at our least functional then, without a doubt. I kept trying to believe that my marriage hadn’t compromised anything between us, when it obviously had, and was preoccupied with my own misery. He was preoccupied with Moriarty, to a manic degree. 

This is a new phase, ever since I moved back in. As with everything else between us, it’s been the best so far. We’ve had about twelve cases since then, and it’s as though we simply flow like one unit. Two minds, but one unit. He observes and deduces and I feed him the right questions with my own observations, give him the necessary feedback when he’s broaching some unspoken rule of etiquette, and he in turn shares his findings with me without being prompted, without leaving me out. It’s very efficient, I must say. We haven’t had a single unsolved case since I moved back in. 

The bodies are in better shape than they might be, all things considered. Lestrade leads us into the kitchen, where we survey them for a moment. Both the man and the woman are seated at the table across from one another, slumped forward over what appears to have been breakfast. They’re both wearing white towelling robes and slippers and the _Times_ has been neatly divided between them: international news and fashion for her, financial and local news for him. The woman’s hair is partially wet, and on a second glance I see that the man’s is, too: not long out of the shower, then. The woman’s face is resting directly in her bowl of cold cereal; the man’s cheek is cushioned on a half-eaten slice of toast. 

Without moving or taking his eyes from the couple, Sherlock asks, “Who found them?” 

Lestrade clears his throat. “Neighbour, apparently. He was popping round to tell them a package had been delivered, didn’t want it getting stolen. He was a mess so I sent him home for a cuppa, told him to get himself together. They were friends, evidently. He knows he’s not to go anywhere. I know you’ll want to talk to him yourself.” 

Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge this. Instead, he moves slowly toward the man, so I go to the opposite side of the table, near the woman. He carefully lifts the man’s face, tilting it upward for me to see. “John?” 

I peer forward across the table. “From a first glance, I’d say he was suffocated. Petechial hemorrhage in the eyes, but more than one thing can cause that. If it weren’t for it being both of them, I’d say he choked on his toast.” I bend and lift the woman’s face as gently as I can. “But then there’s you,” I say to her. “Er can I get a serviette or a paper towel?” 

Lestrade snaps his fingers and a junior officer of some sort hurries over to a paper towel dispenser by the sink and hands some to me. 

I thank him absently and pat the milk off the woman’s face. “Who are they?” I ask, pushing her eyelids back to check for the same symptom. It’s there, sure enough. I sniff at her breath but smell nothing other than cornflakes and coffee. 

Lestrade checks his notepad. “Er, Kendall and Saffron Alloway,” he says. “He was a gynaecologist, successful one going by the house, she was an interior designer. Just based on the cars and house and that, they had loads of money. Not a burglary gone wrong, you reckon?” 

Sherlock has been studying Kendall Alloway’s face and plate and such. He looks across at me. “Time of death?” he asks quietly. He knows I can’t be exact, not right here like this. But he trusts my estimation nonetheless. 

“Based on body temperature, I’d estimate around three, maybe four hours ago,” I say. 

Sherlock cuts his gaze to Lestrade. “Who would rob a house between nine and ten in the morning, even in Knightsbridge?” he asks, a bit pointedly. 

Lestrade shrugs, good-natured. He’s entirely unmoved by Sherlock’s scorn after all this time. “I dunno. Just went with the first obvious thought.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, then comes over to inspect Saffron Alloway in that same, methodical way of his. I watch him, inches away from him, watch the firm/delicate set of his expressive mouth and am suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to kiss it. For fuck’s sake. In the middle of a murder scene, no less! Sherlock appears to be unaware of my swallowing and throat clearing, bending to sniff at the cereal, the half-empty coffee cup. Then he straightens up and makes one of his extraordinary pronouncements. “They weren’t killed in the same way.” 

He says it to Lestrade, ostensibly, but it’s me he looks at right after saying it, waiting for my reaction first. So I react. “What?” The confusion is genuine. “What makes you say that? The cause of death, whatever it is, seems fairly identical to me, not that I’ve examined him yet – what makes you think that?” 

He looks faintly pleased with my reaction, which causes a low glow to start in the pit of my belly. “Check her throat,” he instructs me. “I think you’ll find what I’m talking about.” 

Saffron Alloway’s mouth is closed. I have no idea how Sherlock could have got an idea of what a dead woman’s throat looks like without seeing it, but I dutifully prise open her jaw. Thankfully rigor hasn’t even begun to set in yet – that will take longer. I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore, but I still look up to meet his expectant gaze with my open-mouthed reaction. “Anaphylaxis,” I say, half in demand. “How did you know? And don’t say it!” 

Lestrade snickers, his arms crossed, watching us. I think for him, watching our interactions is half the show. 

Sherlock smirks. “I won’t, then.” He lifts Saffron’s wrist and indicates an allergy bracelet. “‘Peanuts’,” he reads. “Didn’t you smell it on her breath? Added to which, her lips are swollen, suggestive of edema, resulting from oral exposure to the allergen. I suspect it’s in her coffee, which is why she didn’t even have a chance to finish it.” 

I blink and reassess. “I still don’t smell peanuts, but you’ve got a much more sensitive sense of smell than I do. Her lips and tongue are definitely swollen, on the other hand. But it doesn’t explain why _he’s_ dead, too.” 

Sherlock goes back round the other side of the table and beckons me over with his head. “Look,” he says, parting Kendall’s robe at the neck, and I see it then: the faint beginnings of bruises forming. Fingerprint-shaped bruises. 

I meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Strangled,” I say, and he nods and turns to Lestrade. 

“They were murdered,” he states. “One by exposure to her lethal allergy, the other strangled.” 

Lestrade’s eyebrows rise. “As we thought, then: homicide. But who? And why?” 

Sherlock looks around. “Let us see the rest of the house,” he orders, and Lestrade stands back and gestures broadly. 

“It’s all yours,” he says. 

*** 

Little in the house provides Sherlock with anything to go on, until the deep into our search of the master bedroom. Searching a house with Sherlock often means little other than standing in silence while he just stands there and looks. Other times he’ll go through drawers and inspect photos and that, but usually he makes very little mess. The forensics team is plenty capable of that; Lestrade just likes to let Sherlock have his look first. He’s usually very good at narrowing down what he’s looking for, with or without my input.

This time it’s particularly interesting. I watch him as he pulls out the drawer of the nightstand on the left side of the bed. Sherlock glances inside, closes the drawer, and drops to his knees to peer under the bed. Evidently that tells him little; he gets up and goes to the other side and opens the corresponding drawer on the man’s side of the bed. He glances inside, goes to shut the drawer, then changes his mind and opens it again, an odd look on his face. With his gloves on, he reaches inside and picks up a tube of what I immediately recognise as lube, though not the specific brand. I rather hope Sherlock won’t need me to explain what it is, or what it’s used for, though that could also be rather hilarious, particularly if Lestrade is about. He’s not, though; he’s downstairs in the drawing room with the forensics team. 

Sherlock doesn’t ask me what it is, though. Instead, he comes over and hands it to me as he breezes by, going back to the woman’s night table and taking another look at the contents of the drawer. “Interesting,” he says, breaking the silence. 

“What’s that?” I ask. 

Sherlock removes several dildos of differing sizes and takes them out, laying them on the bedspread for inspection, though they didn’t apparently his interest upon his first look. He straightens up and surveys them, hands on his hips. 

I stare at him. “Er… Sherlock,” I begin, about to point out that this could be considered highly disrespectful, given that the owner of said dildos was found dead in her cornflakes just hours ago. 

He shakes his head, then bends forward and selects one of the dildos, holding it up to the light. He rubs a thumb and index finger over it, and says, “This one. Evidence bag?” 

I remember myself and fish in my pocket for one. “Can I ask…?” I advance and hold the bag open for him. 

Instead of just dropping it inside, Sherlock holds the dildo out to me. “This one has lubricant on it. _That_ lubricant, I’m fairly certain.” 

He waits. I don’t get it. “Many women find it, er, more comfortable that way,” I say, fairly certain that he knows next to nothing when it comes to women and sex toys. Then again, I don’t know all that much more, to be honest. I always preferred my girlfriends to use me when the need arose. 

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have any lubricant in her drawer. It’s _that_ lubricant. Which was on his side.” 

I feel my mouth purse. “Okay, but – ”

“Read the tube,” Sherlock interrupts, impatient, but still waiting for me to get there on my own. 

I dutifully hold it up to eye level and squint at the small writing. “ _For the enhancement of sexual pleasure, particularly in easing discomfort in –_ oh. I get it. It’s anal lube. That’s still nothing suspicious, Sherlock. Maybe they were into that sort of thing. Lots of couples are.” 

Sherlock gives me a look that I’m at a loss to interpret, his lips pressed together a little. “But the lubricant was on his side,” he repeats, underscoring it. “If they used it on her, why would he keep the lubricant?” 

I cross my arms. “Maybe he liked being the one to prepare her for it,” I say stubbornly. I don’t know why I’m insisting, but there’s nothing suspicious about this. People get up to all sorts of activities. “And maybe,” I add, “you should put those away before Lestrade sees you’ve been handling them.” 

Now he looks insulted. “I haven’t been _handling_ them. They’re evidence. Or this one is, at least. Where’s that bag?” 

I uncross my arms and hold it out to him. “Do you want the lube, too?” 

“Yes.” He looks faintly defiant, his chin jutting out a little. He closes the bag and goes into the attached loo without waiting for me. 

I go to the collection of dildos and study them for a second. He lined them all up in order of size. The one he finds suspicious was one of the smaller ones. There are five others, and I quickly put them back in their drawer, though not without noticing that none of the others have that same trace of lubricant. It was a silicon-based lube specifically meant for anal sex, I think. Silicon-based lubes aren’t supposed to be used on silicon dildos; it breaks down the material and doesn’t wash off well. He could be right, I think grudgingly. If Kendall Alloway was using his wife’s dildo in secret, this could lead us to a motive, though I’m not sure what, exactly. 

From the loo comes a faint sound of buzzing. “Aha,” Sherlock says. He appears in the doorway, holding something up. “John? Do you know what this is?” 

I look at it and struggle not to react facially. “Are you asking because you don’t?”

Sherlock frowns. “What kind of a question is that?” 

I don’t give in. “Well, do you?” I ask stubbornly. 

“No, I don’t, so tell me if you do,” Sherlock says sharply. 

I clear my throat. “It’s, er, it’s a sex toy.” 

“Yes, I’d gathered that much,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “What does it do, precisely?” At my semi-confused look, he adds, “What is it intended to stimulate?” 

I cough. “Er, the prostate.” (God, please don’t let him ask how I know that!!)

He doesn’t. Instead, he finds the power switch and turns it off. “It was hidden in his shaving kit,” he informs me coolly. “Now would you agree that the dildo situation is grounds for suspicion?” Without waiting for an answer, he says, imperiously, “Evidence bag,” his arm thrusting the sex toy out at me. 

I go over and collect it while trying not to look at it, per se. Fact is, I used to have one something like that. Nothing wrong with enjoying a little prostate stimulation, I always said. It’s there for a reason, right? Biology didn’t have to make it feel good. (And yeah, even _I_ can hear how defensive that sounds.) I seal the bag with my best neutral face on. “Now what?” 

“Now we talk to the neighbour again. Come on.” Sherlock sweeps out of the bedroom, his long legs striding away under that coat of his. 

I hurry after him, wondering where this is going, but he knows. It’s not that I doubt that; I just can’t see it yet. Clearly, he can. We spoke to the man earlier, his teeth still chattering on the edge of the cup of tea he was trying to drink. It didn’t turn up anything out of the ordinary, the chat: he came by to let them know about a package that was sitting on the front stoop, found the door unlocked when they didn’t answer the bell, so let himself in. They were all friendly enough with one another that he’d thought they wouldn’t mind. 

Sherlock stops in the kitchen, where Lestrade is watching the medical team zip the body bag closed over Saffron Alloway’s face. “Where is the package?” he demands abruptly. 

Lestrade looks at him, startled. “What?” 

“The package,” Sherlock repeats. “That the neighbour brought indoors. What have you done with it?” 

“Nothing,” Lestrade says. “It’s probably still wherever the neighbour put it. Check near the door, maybe?” 

Sherlock leaves the kitchen without a word. I follow him, and we find the package as promised, sitting just inside the front door. It hasn’t been opened. “So there really was a package,” he says. He stoops and picks it up, turning it over until he finds the label. “John: look up this tracking number.” 

He rattles off the name and carrier before I’ve even got my phone out, but I’ve learned to keep up. “Hang on,” I say, typing as quickly as I can with both thumbs. “All right: it was delivered at 8:53am this morning.” 

Sherlock absorbs this, then shouts for Lestrade. When he appears, frowning, Sherlock asks, “Time of death: have you got a more precise answer yet?” 

“Er, yeah,” Lestrade says. He checks his notes. “Coroner said about half-past nine, just like John said.” 

Sherlock processes this, blinking. “So the newspapers arrived: we know this because they were reading them. Then the package arrived but they didn’t answer the door for some reason. They were still alive when it came. The papers, therefore, arrived before the package, and the neighbour arrived after the package did.” He looks at me. “John, when did he say he came by?” 

“Er, I think he said he didn’t remember precisely,” I say, thinking back. It was a short interview. “I think he thought it was around nine, nine-thirty. Somewhere in there.” 

“All right. Come on.” Sherlock sets the package down and makes for the front door. 

“Sherlock! What about the package?” Lestrade wants to know. 

“Leave it. It’s not important. Just the time of delivery.” He holds the door open for me and we go back to the neighbour’s. 

He’s still home, and looks startled to see Sherlock’s stern face at the door again. “H-hello,” he says nervously, looking Sherlock up and down, his eyes flicking anxiously over to me. “What’s going on, then?” 

“Douglas, is it?” Sherlock asks imperiously. 

“Norman,” I supply quietly. 

“Norman. Whatever.” Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Which papers do you take, Norman? The _Times_? The _Daily Mail_? The _Telegraph_?” 

Norman licks his lips. “The _Times_ ,” he says. He wipes his hands surreptitiously on his trousers. 

Both Sherlock and I notice. “And what time would you estimate that your copy of the _Times_ is delivered each day?” Sherlock continues, unrelenting. 

Norman looks confused, but no less reassured. “Er – around half-past seven, usually,” he says. “Sometimes later, if it’s a different paper boy… why?” 

Sherlock turns to me. “That’s a healthy window, wouldn’t you say?” Before I can respond, he turns back to the neighbour. “When did you become aware of Saffron Alloway’s deathly allergy?” he wants to know. 

“What allergy?” Norman’s eyes are moving rapidly back and forth between us, and he still hasn’t opened the door all the way. 

I decide to speak up. “Listen, Norman,” I say, choosing a kindly tone. “Whatever you haven’t told us, it’s not going to do you any favours to withhold it from us. We could go back next door and get a warrant, but I suggest you just let us in and try your best to answer Sherlock’s questions as directly and honestly as possible. It’s really for the best.” 

Norman hesitates, then sighs in defeat and opens the door, standing back to let us in. Sherlock throws me an approving look and goes inside. “The bedroom,” he says. “Which way?” 

Norman swallows visibly and nods with his head, possibly not trusting his voice. I give him a second glance. He’s actually fairly attractive, or would be if he weren’t petrified of Sherlock. In his late thirties, like the Alloways, who were both stunners. His hair is a little thin on top, but he’s quite fit. His house is very nicely appointed, almost suspiciously so, as Mary would have said cattily, meaning it as an indication of orientation. Always hated when she’d do that. Never believed in stereotypes, myself. He and I hang back just inside the doorway of the bedroom as Sherlock goes directly to the drawer of the night stand and has a look inside. “Aha,” he says, withdrawing a tube of lube of the same brand as Kendall Alloway’s. He tosses it to me. “John?” 

I turn it over in my hands, not wanting to believe it. “It could be a coincidence,” I begin, but it’s weak. It could be, but it rarely is, not when there’s a double homicide to consider. 

“It could be,” Sherlock agrees. His gaze shifts to Norman. “Or,” he prompts. Then, a little more gently, “This would be a good time to start talking, Norman.” 

Norman, to my surprise, begins to cry. 

He doesn’t confess to the murders. Not right away. What he does tell us about is his ongoing affair with Kendall Alloway, who had apparently promised to leave his wife for him. Who’d insisted that everything was over between himself and Saffron, that their marriage was little more than a business agreement by that point. 

Sherlock prompts him several times. “But then this morning, you took their package inside, and when they didn’t respond to you, you went looking for them. And you found them. In the shower, I presume?” 

Norman nods. He’s sitting in a chair now, his face buried in his hands, his thinning, light brown hair sticking up every which way. “And I heard them. They were in there together… I don’t know what came over me. I just – snapped. He’d promised me. We’d been carrying on for four years, damn it. I loved him.” 

Sherlock’s gaze becomes stern. “You killed him,” he says coolly. “Do you deny it?” 

Norman hesitates. “I think I want a lawyer.” 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snaps. “Do we look like the police? Go on, you might as well explain it. You put it in her coffee, did you? Waited for the anaphylaxis to set in, then came out from wherever you were lurking and dispatched Kendall with your bare hands. It’s plain enough. Be a man and own it.” 

As intended, this goads Norman, a wash of colour flaring suddenly in his cheeks. “That could have been an accident, with her,” he says, glaring at Sherlock. “How could I have known she had a peanut allergy?” 

Sherlock goes still. Then he says, quietly, “John?” 

I’ve already got the zip-tie in my hands. “Sorry about this,” I say, hauling him to his feet and cuffing him almost before he’s figured out what’s happening. 

“Wha – what is this?” Norman gasps. “You can’t do this! You can’t prove anything, except the affair! I told you about that myself, why are you – ”

“Because we never told you it was a peanut allergy,” I tell him grimly. “That’s as good as a confession right there. Come on. Let’s get you over to the Met.” 

The tears return in full force then, and I can admit to feeling like a bit of a cad as I drag the sobbing man over to the Alloways’ house. Love is a vicious motivator, Sherlock often says. He’s never wrong: this harmless-seeming man just murdered his lover and his lover’s wife over it. 

By the time it’s over, it’s nearly supper time, so Sherlock suggests we go out. I’m fucking starving by this point, so I agree. We go for Thai, a nice little place about halfway between the crime scene and Baker Street that we’ve eaten at before. They’ve got delicious spring rolls, as I recall. We order massaman and green curries with basil and share, spooning it over jasmine coconut rice and drinking tangy lemongrass iced tea with it all. The place is only half-full, so we snag a table in the window with candles burning in colourful glass jars. Some sort of plinky music is playing, but quietly, not interrupting our conversation. 

We talk about the case. Norman broke down completely and confessed the entire thing as soon as we brought him over to Lestrade. He confessed to overhearing the Alloways having sex in the shower, to having spontaneously improved the peanut poisoning with the Alloways’ own peanut butter, mixing a tablespoon of it into the coffee that was already brewing as the Alloways showered together. It wouldn’t have been enough to taste over the strong flavour of the espresso, and I’m still impressed that Sherlock smelled it on Saffron’s breath or in her cup. 

“It’s still sad, though,” I point out. “If Norman thought that Kendall was really going to leave Saffron for him, I do see how it must have come as a shock to discover that the Alloways did still love each other. Or were close enough to still be having sex, at any rate.” 

“And yet, it obviously wasn’t very frequent, judging by the number of dildos in her possession,” Sherlock comments dryly, scooping more jasmine rice onto my plate. 

“Ta. Take the last spring roll,” I invite, so he does. “True,” I say, in response to his comment. “Maybe Kendall didn’t know what he wanted.” 

“Going by what Norman says, it seems he wanted Norman at least two to three times per week,” Sherlock says, frowning just a little. 

“Also true,” I concede. “But it’s not always that clear-cut. Maybe he wasn’t sure.” 

Sherlock gives me a pointed look. “Speaking from experience?” 

I feel my cheeks heat a little and scowl. “Well… if you want to know, yes. I mean, I was never sure about Mary. For the obvious reason that maybe I never did want _her_ , per se.” 

Sherlock studies me, his silverware stilling in his hands. “But you loved her,” he says. It’s not a question. 

I struggle with this. “I mean, I did,” I say, trying to put it into words. “But it was never… it was a safe choice. A comfortable choice. At least until I found out who she really was. It wasn’t… thunder and lightning.” 

“Hmm.” Sherlock falls silent, turning his attention back to dinner. After a little, he looks up and tries another tack. “Kendall Alloway’s prostate stimulator,” he says. 

The very words make me squirm. “What about it?” 

“You recognised it.” Sherlock is very direct, his eyes inescapable. “I don’t mean that one, precisely, but its ilk in general.” 

“I’m a doctor,” I say defensively. “I’m supposed to know human anatomy.” 

Sherlock smirks, his seriousness suddenly dissipating. “All right,” he says mildly, and lets it go. 

I can’t resist my own dig. “So you’ve never had one of those, then.” 

Sherlock’s lips purse a little. “No.” 

I wait for him to turn the question back on me, but he doesn’t. I want to say something along the lines of _Maybe you should try one out someday_ , but somehow my courage fails me. I can feel him watching me, waiting for me to say it, but when I don’t, he doesn’t ask me, either. The conversation fades lamely, until Sherlock starts talking about the food again. Safe topic. We stick to that for the rest of the meal, then walk home through the fading early spring light. It’s still warm enough to be comfortable, the trees already in leaf. The urge to take his hand swamps me all of a sudden, and I wonder how he would react if I just did it. Just reached out and firmly held his hand. Would he pull it away, I wonder? Give me a strange look and ask what I’m doing? I don’t know. Maybe one day I’ll have the balls to try it. Not tonight, though. 

*** 

That night, I go to brush my teeth and find Sherlock in the loo, showering. I knock. “You going to be long?” I ask through the door. 

“No,” he calls back. “You can come in, if you like.” 

“I was just going to brush my teeth,” I say. “Do you mind?” 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, so I open the door and go in. 

The loo is steamy, the mirror fogged over. “Got that water hot enough?” I ask dryly. 

He hums agreeably in response, his low voice and resonant against the tiles. He sounds relaxed and easygoing, just how I like him best. It crosses my mind that he probably just had a wank, then. I clear my throat and reach for my toothbrush, trying not to actively think about this. (Later.) I brush my teeth, the humidity in the air soaking gently into my jumper, my reflection obscured by the condensation on the mirror. Sherlock shuts off the water and a bare arm thrusts out, reaching for his towel. 

“I’m a’most ’one,” I garble to the best of my ability, but he isn’t put off that I’m still there. 

“It’s fine,” he says again, the arm and towel both disappearing behind the shower curtain. 

I pretend I’m not listening intently to the sounds of him drying himself off, that I’m not drawing out my presence in the loo on purpose. Finally I spit and rinse my mouth and toothbrush, and Sherlock’s head appears around the edge of the shower curtain, his hair tousled, yet somehow still runway-perfect. 

He points obliquely at the toilet. “Do you need the – ?” he asks. I nod, so he pulls back the curtain and steps out of the shower. He’s chosen a ridiculously tiny towel that only just barely covers his pelvic region and nothing else, and even so it gapes a little as he steps out of the bath tub. I must be staring, because he says, “What?” 

Fuck. I swallow. “Nothing. Sorry. Just – you’re ridiculously fit.” 

It works: two spots of pink appear on his cheeks, even through the rosy bloom of heat already there from his scalding shower. Whenever anyone else compliments him, it has little to no effect on him, but when I do, he never fails to react like this. Between the thought of him in the shower, the tiny towel, and now his blush, I’m already neck-deep in planning tonight’s wank. God, he’s attractive! 

He still looks rather pleased. “Thank you,” he says, then whisks himself into his bedroom to let me piss in solitude. 

It’s a bit difficult: seeing him like that, scrubbed from head to toe and ninety-six percent nude has caused stirrings south of the border and I have to consciously make myself relax before I can go, my awareness that he can hear me through the thin door separating his bedroom from the loo not helping matters any. Finally it’s done and I flush and wash my hands, zipping myself away. I knock lightly at his door on my way out. 

“Come in,” he calls. 

I open his bedroom door and smile around it. He’s already in bed, the tiny towel hung over the back of his chair to dry. Jesus. Is he naked in there? He must be; his shoulders and upper chest certainly are. I swallow. “Just wanted to say good night,” I say. 

Sherlock smiles. “Thanks for all of your help today. Another one solved.” 

“You did the heavy lifting on that,” I point out. 

“Not at all. It was teamwork.” Sherlock reaches for his book, a heavy tome on genetic deviations he was reading the other night by the fire. “Brunch tomorrow?” he asks. “It’s Saturday. We could stay in and cook, or we could go out.” 

I consider the options. “Let’s see if we can get into Christopher’s,” I suggest. “We haven’t been there for awhile and their French toast is delicious. And if we can’t get a table this last minute, we could get your brother to pull a string for us.” 

“Mmm, let’s,” Sherlock agrees. “Plus, mimosas! I’ll call him first thing.” 

“Not too early,” I say. “We can go around lunch time, if he can get us in.” 

“He still owes us for that stolen microfiche last month,” Sherlock says. “I’ll text him now.” 

“You might wake him,” I warn. 

Sherlock snickers. “Good. I hope I do.” 

I laugh, too. “Good night, then.” 

Sherlock smiles again, still looking at his screen. “Good night.” He looks up. “See you in the morning.” 

I nod, smiling back, and pull the door closed behind me. I stop in the loo to blow out my breath, leaning heavily against the counter. The steam has cleared enough from the mirror that I can see my reflection now, showing my own self-doubt all too clearly. 

*** 

It’s not that I don’t know. How I feel, I mean. What I might want, with him. It’s just so complicated now. It should have happened right from the beginning, but I guess I was over-eager in asking. It was too soon, and then things just got more and more complicated. I had girlfriends. He’d already told me he was married to his work. He could have said that he was a workaholic, that he just didn’t have time, but he said that, married to his work, like I’d just proposed to him and he was explaining about a pre-existing spouse. He was kinder to me than I’ve ever seen him be with anyone else who hit on him, ever. Every time I think of that conversation, I wish I could go back in time and move it forward three or four or six months into the future. I should have let it develop naturally, instead of jumping the gun. And then I’m sure I didn’t help matters any by stubbornly insisting on telling everyone who ever met us how we weren’t a couple and that I wasn’t gay. Sherlock never said anything when those rumours came up. Not once. It didn’t occur to me to wonder if I hurt him with all of those denials until much later. Now, of course, I’m kicking myself for it. 

In a way, it’s always seemed simultaneously like a too-real possibility, and yet the rest of the time it feels like something that can only exist in the planes of fantasy. Like now: I’m lying on my back, hand shoved deep into my pyjama pants, slowly stroking myself into full hardness, thinking shamelessly of Sherlock in that tiny towel, his body muscular yet lithe, as graceful as he always is in those enviable suits, but stripped down to steam-wet, pale/rosy skin, hard muscle moving beneath it with every movement he made. I think of him touching himself in the heat of the shower, eyes closed in the stream of water as he unwinds from the day, that dark hair slicked against his skull. My fist is moving quickly now, a smear of lube easing the way. I think of Sherlock naked between his sheets and wonder for the seventy millionth time how and why I don’t know more by now about his sexual habits: how often he gets himself off and how, when, where. How he likes it. What he thinks about when he does it. I love imagining him doing it at the same time as me, right below me. I wonder endlessly and gratuitously about his cock: what it looks like, how big it is, how thick, how he would touch it. How I would touch it, if ever given the chance. I’m panting now, my free hand pinching at my nipple, my hips arching up off the sheets. I think of my old prostate toy and of Sherlock fucking me. Fuck yeah, I’d let him, if he wanted to. I’ve never been with someone who was so much bigger than me, physically speaking. I’m not what you’d call submissive by any measure, but the thought of that, of his bigger frame pressing up behind me, looming over me as he enters me, the hard, thick length of him pushing into me – fuck yes, I’d let him! Or we’d do it the other way. I imagine him bent over the kitchen counter, looking back over his shoulder at me with one of those trademark smirks of his playing about his lips, inviting/daring me to come over and do it, pull his trousers down and push my cock into his arse right then and there. I’m frantic now, panting audibly and cursing under my breath as I imagine that, fucking him in broad daylight, right there in the kitchen, imagine the sounds he’d make – 

I almost manage to keep it quiet as I come in spurts all over my knuckles and stomach, but not entirely. I come some more, then stroke myself through the last of it, lying back and sagging into the pillows as I breathe heavily through the aftermath. Sometimes I imagine Sherlock hearing me from downstairs and coming up, offering to join me or give me a hand… but so far he never has. 

The sexual fantasies are one thing, I think, reaching for a tissue and lazily giving myself a wipe. Everyone fantasises. As a doctor, I’d tell anyone that it’s a hugely important facet of sex. I never fantasised about Mary, though. I mostly thought about getting off. I thought of the friction, about how good it feels to be in someone, how glad I was to have someone to fuck. That’s it: it was never about her. It might as well have been a sex doll, except humans are typically more responsive. I could go for months just on imagining Sherlock’s responses to the ways I’d like to touch him. But worse than the sexual things I crave from him are the romantic notions. Those, I can’t shake. I want to kiss him. I want to lie naked in bed with him, our bodies touching everywhere, and just hold him for hours. I want to whisper and cuddle and giggle and kiss. I want to plan our brunches in bed together, our faces inches apart on the same pillow. I want to know every inch of his body better than I know my own, and for him to know mine the same way. I want intimacy, damn it. I want to be allowed to love him openly and without limit. 

Because I do love him. That’s not a secret, at least not from myself. I can acknowledge it now. And it _is_ a possibility. I’m fairly sure of that. If only we could find a way to talk about it, because the volume of things we aren’t saying grows almost daily. I don’t know how to bring it up, how to just – say it at last after having not said it for so long. But at least we have brunch tomorrow. It will have to be enough for now. 

*** 

The restaurant is noisy and crowded, but despite a grumpily-received call, Mycroft is good for the favour; our table is perfect, right along the windows. We both order French toast, mine on brioche with roast peaches and mascarpone, Sherlock’s on dark chocolate brioche with vanilla ice cream, and we drink too many mimosas. As ever, Sherlock doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the prices, so I relax and go with it. The host and server both obviously think we’re a couple, but no one says it exactly, so there’s no opportunity to even show Sherlock that I’m not going to deny it if he isn’t. I’ve got my head that far out my arse by now, at least. We eat and he deduces the patrons around us, every ‘deduction’ more ridiculous or outrageous than the one before, and I give it a go, too. 

After I stop laughing at Sherlock’s last one, I nod at the server, whose hands are hovering questioningly over our empty mimosa glasses, and she winks and whisks them away to bring fresh ones. I lean forward. “That couple there, two tables over,” I say, nodding, my voice conspiratorially low. “One of them is wearing fancy lingerie and it’s not the one you’d think.” 

Sherlock looks over discreetly, then says, straight-faced, “Au contraire. It’s exactly the one I think,” and I sporfle with laughter. 

“You see the way he’s shifting?” I say. “He’s wearing a butt plug. Thought it would be sexy to wear it all morning but now it’s just uncomfortable, but his wife’s blabbing on and on about her shopping trip with her friend Suzie yesterday and all he wants is to go to the loo and take it out.” 

Sherlock’s mouth is all quirks and dimples. “What’s more, he absolutely hates Suzie but can’t exactly say it. Suzie is a government conspiracy theorist who’s got his wife convinced that aliens are running parliament and one of the things they bought yesterday was lead-lined boots that will give him a heart attack when the credit card bill comes.” 

“He won’t even need to physically remove the butt plug when he sees it,” I add, and Sherlock dissolves into helpless, shaking laughter, a hand over his mouth, his eyes crinkled into mirthful crescents. 

I want to go round the table and snog him breathless, climb into his lap and have him right here in the restaurant. He’s so fucking beautiful when he laughs like this, his voice higher than usual, tears leaking out his eyes at the mental image of the other diner shooting his butt plug across the room at his wife’s ridiculous purchase. _God_ , I want him! The thought sobers my laughter before his, but the new round of mimosas arrives just in time to give me something else to do. I grab for it and sip hastily, trying to keep my face from giving me away. 

The truth is, I’m a fucking coward and I know it. I’m just so afraid of fucking this up. He’s everything to me. That’s the truth. He’s so much to me that it scares me. I’ve lost him before, more than once, and the last time was entirely my own fault, shoving him away like I did. There’s still more I need to say about that, but it’s got to be the right moment. It has to mean enough. I can’t misstep here, I just can’t. I eat the rest of my French toast, the peaches tangy and sweet, the vanilla-infused mascarpone delicious, and the conversation takes a natural turn to something else. It’s perfect, honestly, I think, pulling on my spring jacket as Sherlock hands his card to the server a bit later. We get ourselves back onto the pavement, blinking in the sunlight and a little tipsy, and walk back to Westminster, taking our time to enjoy the free Saturday with neither case nor infant to occupy us. We bump into each other frequently, shoulders or the backs of our hands brushing together, but it’s fine. Neither of us apologises or pulls away, but it doesn’t become anything more, either. That’s the problem: we seem to have settled at this particular place. We’ve been friends for so long that no one’s asking questions about who/what/how we are. This is it: we’re like this now. And it’s not terrible at all. But God, I want so much more. 

*** 

The forty-five minute walk is enough to sober us both up by the time we get home. We settle into at-home things, checking our email, poking at our blogs, reading the papers. I do some washing up and Sherlock dismantles his latest experiment and cleans everything up. Eventually we make dinner, just spaghetti bolognese with garlic bread and a simple green salad. Nothing too fancy, but we each have a glass of cabernet with it, and it’s good. It’s very good. No one says anything about it – of course – but the whole day has felt special, somehow. Like we’re just in a particularly good spot, extra close, neither one of us suggesting going anywhere, even to his room for a nap. We want to be together, in each other’s company. I can feel that much: we both want that. We wash the dishes together after supper, Sherlock washing, me drying and putting everything away. He wipes down the table and corks the leftover wine, and I shut off the kitchen light. Sherlock says that he’s going to get his book, so I jog upstairs to get the novel I’m working through, too. As though by unspoken prior arrangement, we meet at our chairs and sit down across from each other to read, though Sherlock gets up almost at once and says, “I forgot.” He kneels in front of the fireplace and builds a small triangle of kindling, then stacks logs around it just so and strikes a match. 

I love watching him build fires. They’re never precisely symmetrical, which I thought was odd of him at first, but when I asked he explained that symmetry isn’t good for fires. The imperfections are what let the oxygen flow and feed the flames, and no two fires of his are ever exactly the same. And they’re nonetheless perfect. He prides himself on his one-match fires with no artificial kindling, and tonight’s is no different. When he’s satisfied that at least one of the logs has caught the flames, normally he would sit back and pronounce the fire lit, or just get up and carry on with what he was doing, but tonight he stays where he is. I watch him, aware that something is different. I think of our imperfections, and wonder if they’ve let the oxygen in, feeding the flame, or whether it’s all just been too much, too damaging to ever let us get there in the end. 

The room becomes very still. 

When he speaks at last, he’s still kneeling there, his back to me. “The air is charged, isn’t it,” he observes quietly. It’s not a question. 

Just like that, my heart is in my throat. I look down at my book. “You noticed, too?” 

He makes a sound that might be agreement. “More so than usual, even. I wonder why.” 

My voice comes out as quietly as his. “I don’t know.” 

Sherlock twists around and looks at me, now. “Don’t you?” he asks, his eyes piercing through me. 

Pinned to my chair by his gaze, I can’t deny it, any part of it. “Not – precisely,” I try. That’s total shit, try again, Watson. I clear my throat. “What I mean is, I don’t know why _now_. Why today.” 

Sherlock sits back on his heels. “There is so much we never say,” he says quietly, still looking at me. “Years’ worth of undiscussed subject matter. I thought it was an unspoken agreement that we simply choose not to acknowledge it. Yet today it feels closer to the surface than usual. I don’t know why, either. But I’ve felt for the past week now that there are things you want to say, or questions you want to ask, perhaps.” 

Somehow, I can’t speak; something thick seems to be lodged in my throat. I nod, hardly believing that this is finally happening, this conversation. He is so much braver than I am. Fuck. I was supposed to be the soldier here. 

Sherlock blinks and goes back to his chair, crossing his legs at the knee and leaning forward, his hands clasped over the top knee. “Suppose you say some of it now,” he suggests, his voice unusually low and velvety. 

Breathing isn’t supposed to be this hard. “I’ve – never known if it was – time,” I say jerkily. “The right time. If it was ever going to be the right time.” 

“It feels right to me,” Sherlock says, still quiet. His eyes are very intense. He adds, “Please, John. Just – talk. I can’t bear to have it go on this way any longer. Please.” 

I can’t just dive straight into the heart of it, somehow. I exhale and grip the arms of my chair. “Okay,” I say. My voice is a bit unsteady. I can’t believe how terrifying this is. “There’s so much, honestly. As you said, years’ worth, built up and never talked about, or never talked about enough.”

“Such as?” The prompt is gentle, not pushing, his eyes deepened to midnight in the warm light of the fire. 

I open my mouth, inhaling, then stop: suddenly I know what I’ve got to say first. It’s gone on too long as it is. “Sherlock – ” It comes out abruptly, more so than I meant. “Before I say anything else, I’ve _got_ to say this: that day in the hospital, Culverton Smith’s hospital – I can’t – I shouldn’t have – ”

“Stop,” Sherlock says, very quietly, but I shake my head. 

“No – please, I have to. This can’t go on being one of those things we keep not talking about. I _know_ you’ve forgiven me for what I did to you that day, but I haven’t even apologised. I haven’t even apologised for blaming you for Mary’s death,” I say, my gut twisting horribly. “I am… _such_ a shit friend, Sherlock. I didn’t deserve your forgiveness, no matter what I might have still been angry about from the past. I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry.” I’m leaning forward, my forearms on my thighs, fingers gripping each other, my voice heavy. But it feels so right to have finally said it. 

Sherlock absorbs this, his lips pressing together a little. “As you said, I’ve already forgiven it,” he says. “You were angry. Perhaps you needed the outlet.” 

“It never should have been you,” I say firmly. “I promise you this: I will never hurt you again. Not like that. Not intentionally.” 

Sherlock accepts this, his face ducking for a moment. “All right,” he says quietly. Then his eyes flick over, meeting mine bluely. “But about that past stuff you just mentioned: it’s my turn to apologise. I never gave you the full story. I should have told you the night I first came back. Or any day since that one, but – somehow I just didn’t, and after that I was loath to remind you of it. To bring it up. I just – hoped it would become water under the bridge at some point. But it never did, and I think you need to understand it in order to let it go, perhaps.” 

I’m confused. “What? What do you mean?” 

So he tells me, his voice low: about the rooftop of Bart’s Hospital, about Moriarty and his snipers, of the blackmail behind his jump. My mouth falls open. “I never knew,” I say, shocked by this. “I had no idea!” 

“I know,” Sherlock says quickly, still apologetic. “I’m sorry, John. I should have told you long ago. That’s why I couldn’t tell you I was still alive. I needed you to believe it until I had dismantled the last of Moriarty’s rings. I had no way of knowing how far the threat went. I was trying to keep you alive.” 

I think of him, on the run for two years and me punching him in the face when he finally got back, and shudder. “Fuck,” I say thickly, suddenly hating myself. 

“You couldn’t have known,” Sherlock says, hastening to reassure me. “Don’t – think whatever it is you’re thinking. Does that – help, though?” 

I look up and across at him. “Yes! God, yes, Sherlock! It just makes me regret even more how I reacted when you came back!”

Sherlock shrugs. “You didn’t know,” he says diplomatically. “My fault for not telling you.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Go on,” he says. “What else is there?” 

It supplies itself without my conscious thought. “Magnussen,” I say. “Why, Sherlock? Why did you do that?”

Sherlock blinks at me. “To protect you and Mary, obviously,” he says, his brow furrowing a little. “And honestly, to protect you from Mary, in a sense. So that you would never be implicated in whatever crimes Magnussen was about to expose her in.” 

“But why – all of that, with Mary?” I ask doggedly. “Why did you tell me to go back to her, the night I found out she’d shot you? Why did you want me to be with someone who’d done that to you?” 

Sherlock hesitates for the first time, his long fingers plucking at the knee of his trousers. He glances over at me through his lashes. “I thought it was what you wanted,” he says. Then, before I can respond, butterflies stirring in my gut, he adds, “That, and I thought that Mary might become a danger to you if you had left her then. I knew I was in no position to help, given that my heart was shutting down at the moment. I had to see you safely through the confrontation.” 

I understand now. Finally. I nod, the pieces falling solidly into place at long last. I look up at him and pick up on the first thing he said. “And you thought she was what I wanted,” I repeat, my voice a little softer. 

Sherlock’s lips compress again, but he nods. “Did I get that wrong, too?” he asks, and suddenly it’s right there between us. 

I open my mouth again, aware that this may be the single most important moment of my life to date, and choose my words with care. “I don’t even know,” I say, honestly. “I don’t think I knew then, either. What I did know was that finding you, shot in the heart, and then seeing you collapse again right as the paramedics arrived – you were the most important thing to me then. If I had lost you then – for real that time, though it was real for me the first time, too – I don’t know what I would have done, Sherlock. You are so incredibly important to me.” 

He blinks several times. “As you are to me,” he says, his voice low and possibly a bit self-conscious, but not shying away from it. 

I nod. “Yeah. I see that now. I finally fucking see it. I’m sorry it took me so long.” I inhale again, then force myself to go on. “It’s more than that, of course. It always has been. But I could never find the right way to say it, first to myself, and certainly not to you.” 

I see him swallow. “Say what?” Sherlock’s eyes are locked on mine. 

Another deep breath. “That you’ve always been – more important to me than a friend,” I say, the words coming out quietly but very definitely. “From the very first, Sherlock. I just – didn’t know what to do with it. And I didn’t think you would ever want that, so I never – I never asked again, after that very first dinner. I should have. But then it all got so complicated, with your disappearance and then you came back and Mary was there – but all this time, I never – no matter what else happened, or came between us – I – ”

Sherlock is watching me, his face so beautifully intense that it almost hurts to look at. “All this time, you – what?” he asks, not moving a muscle. 

I exhale now, and just say it. “I’ve always had feelings for you.” Fucking finally. I go on, clarifying. “From the very start, Sherlock. So – go on, tell me: _was_ I right in thinking you just don’t do that sort of thing?” 

Sherlock’s lips press in again. “I never have,” he says slowly. “You’re not wrong about that.” 

He stops, perhaps gathering his words. I’m still leaning forward. “Have you ever been in love?” I ask. Part of me wants to ask about his sexual history, but right here in this moment, his heart is foremost on my mind rather than his cock. 

Sherlock doesn’t move a muscle. “Yes.” 

I hesitate. “Was it Irene Adler?” I ask, trying not to wince and bracing myself mentally to hear it. 

Sherlock surprises me, though. “For God’s sake. No!” He doesn’t sound irritated, exactly, but close. 

I shoot him an apologetic look. “Sorry. Just had to – know.” He doesn’t say anything, still looking a bit annoyed, so I ask, “Was it before that?” 

Sherlock pauses. “Yes, I loved this person before that. Before we met her.” He pauses again, then says, “You’re asking the wrong questions, John.” 

I do wince now. “Am I? I’m sorry... I’m not very good at this.” 

So he prompts me, his voice very low in its range. “Ask me if I’m still in love.” 

(Oh, God.) “Are you?” I ask, almost afraid to look at him. 

He eyes seem to turn darker without him even moving. “Yes.”

My breath comes out in a rush, my heartbeat doubling. “Do I know… them?” 

“Him.” The precision is clear, his eyes still on me, waiting. 

“Him, okay.” Got it. That settles one big question, at least. 

Sherlock surveys me patiently. “I told you when we first met that women aren’t my area. I don’t see how I could have been more clear. Your obvious jealousy over both Irene and Janine was wildly unfounded.”

I nod quickly, trying not to misstep. “Right. Got it.”

Sherlock swallows, his throat bobbing. “Come on, John. Just ask. Surely you’ve put it together by now.”

I blink a bunch of times, hardly daring to look at him. “Is it… me?” 

Sherlock nods, and the entire world seems to shift on its axis. “I never knew how to tell you, either,” he says quietly. “It always, as you said, felt like the wrong time. I didn’t know how to begin the conversation, after so much time had already gone by without it having happened. But lately, since you came home… all of that unspoken stuff has kept coming almost to the surface but never breaking through.” 

I nod. “I’ve thought more than once lately that we could practically write a book with all the stuff we don’t say. I wanted it to be this. I’ve hoped so badly, but I was never sure – we’ve got so good at playing the game of hiding it.” 

“Even when it’s right there under our noses, plain as day,” Sherlock agrees. “I was almost sure sometimes, but I felt I couldn’t or shouldn’t say it.” 

“Me too,” I say, aware that I’m trembling, of all things. It can’t be helped – this is too important. “But I’ve wanted to – I wanted to so badly, Sherlock!” 

He says my name then and I cross the space in a heartbeat, bending over him, my hands on his cheeks, my mouth on his at last. He’s so tall that he doesn’t even need to stand for this, his head tipped up, his hands coming up to hold onto my elbows as we kiss. It’s long and intensely sweet, our lips closed, but it’s nonetheless one of the most passionate kisses I’ve ever had. I pull away after a little but stay there, bent over him, my thumbs rubbing over his cheekbones. Sherlock touches his tongue to his lower lip and blinks up at me, his eyes starry in the firelight, his face looking unusually young and trusting in my hands. “I love you,” he says, and my throat closes. 

“I love you, too,” I get out through the tightness, and now he stands and looks down into my eyes. He’s the one to initiate it this time, his eyes on me as he lowers his mouth to mine and we kiss again, the same way, lips pressed tightly together, and this time our arms find their way around each other, too. It feels amazing to have him in my arms and with a pang I realise I’ve never even had this before. I could have – but I didn’t hug back that one time, when he gently folded his arms around me and held me. I should have, but the moment was too mixed up with Mary and my own endless bitterness. Now, finally, it’s just about us, and it’s incredible. His lips are soft and warm and strong, and I know already that I never want to kiss any other lips for as long as I live. 

When it tapers off at last, Sherlock looks down into my eyes, a look of such obvious tenderness on his face that even a lump like me couldn’t fail to miss it, and I spontaneously reach up with my left hand to cup his face again, my other arm still firmly around his back. He does the same thing, stroking my hair back from my forehead. “We just kept missing it,” he says, his voice soft. “Time and time again.”

I nod. “We were so stupid,” I say. “But me in particular.” 

He shakes his head but doesn’t deny it aloud. “I didn’t want to rock the boat,” he tells me. “Neither after you initially forgave me, nor after you moved back in. I was just so glad that you came back. Both times. It was why I didn’t deduce more about Mary, though now I wish I had. I’m not sure I could have told you in any case, though.” 

I mirror him, shaking my own head. “I think we can both guess how well that would’ve gone over. I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s my fault that it took us so long to get here.” 

He touches my bottom lip with his thumb. “Stop,” he says gently. “You’ve apologised. I’ve apologised. Let’s just – let it go, shall we?”

I nod. “Okay,” I try, the word coming out half-whispered. 

He smiles. “Besides, there are better things we could be doing than pinpointing every particle of blame.” 

I smile back at him, fairly sure that my eyes and face are doing ridiculous things, but I can’t help it. “Such as?”

He doesn’t respond, not verbally. Instead, he just bends and kisses me again, and this time it’s a series of kisses, still closed-mouth, but sweeter than anything I’ve ever experienced. I can feel it down to my toes, caught in the gravity of being close to him at last, unable and unwilling to even try letting go of him. 

Eventually we take ourselves over to the sofa and sit down, fingers tangled together in our laps, and we talk and talk and talk, about all of the little things we missed, all of the moments when we felt it especially, and it’s extremely cathartic and very satisfying. “Did you really like Mary?” I ask him at one point. “Was that – real?”

Sherlock contemplates this. “I think I really did, if only for your sake,” he says thoughtfully. “I genuinely tried. Maybe too hard. Mycroft kept telling me not to get involved, to look the other way. I’d mentioned something vague to him once and all he would say was that I’d be better off ignoring it, for your sake.”

I make an exasperated sound. “Trust Mycroft to fuck that up, too. Of course he must have known all along.” 

Sherlock nods. “I do see why he said that, in retrospect, but… a terrible truth is always preferable to a pretty lie, isn’t it?” 

“Definitely,” I say. “For the record, I love that you were trying to give me what you thought I wanted. That’s – it’s incredibly selfless of you. I’ve underestimated you horribly. I know you don’t want me to go on apologising, but for that, I’ve got to. It’s only right.” 

Sherlock leans over and presses his lips to my forehead, then says, his lips still touching my face, “You were merely extrapolating based on prior data. Nothing wrong with that.” 

“Plenty wrong with that, but I’ll take it,” I counter, then reach for his face and kiss him again. The conversation devolves into kissing, little sips of kisses that make me feel like my heart’s been set ablaze. He is incredible and I love him so much it hurts. I’m aching for it to become even more, but I wouldn’t do a fucking thing to rush this or push him into anything. Whatever we do will likely be a first for him, and I’m content as anything to let it go at whatever pace he needs for it to go. 

It’s late by the time I yawn, which makes Sherlock yawn, too. He checks the time. “It’s midnight,” he says. “Or nearly. Perhaps we should get some sleep.” 

I agree, and we pull ourselves to our feet and go down the corridor to the loo hand-in-hand, brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed together. It’s much too soon to even suggest spending the night together – that much is clear to me. I deliberately make sure to set my toothbrush back in the cup we keep them in, then turn to him. “I’ll head up, then,” I say carefully. 

He nods. “Okay.” He comes closer, puts his hands on my shoulders, and bends to kiss me again. I lean into it, my hands on his hips, and kiss back for a long moment. Afterward, Sherlock puts his arms all the way around me and hugs me to himself, so I hug back. “I’m so glad this has happened at last, John,” he says, his voice almost too low to hear. 

I tighten my arms, closing my eyes and reveling in the feeling of holding him like this. “So am I, Sherlock. Just so very, very glad. Thank you for being the brave one and starting the conversation.”

“I knew it was risky,” Sherlock admits. He releases me enough to look into my eyes. “Brunch again tomorrow, or would that be too much?” 

I shake my head, smiling. “I’ll go anywhere with you, anytime. You choose the place. When should we go?” 

“Around eleven?” Sherlock asks. 

I agree, then kiss him again. The thought of not kissing him until morning is already frustrating. Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll attempt to introduce him to the notion of the tongue in kissing. But for now, this is frankly fucking exquisite. Our lips part at last and I make myself let go of him. “See you in the morning,” I say, and get myself out of the loo and upstairs before I can start trying to make it more in spite of myself. 

I’m filled with elation. I want to jump on my bed and howl for joy, and also for frustration that my own idiocy prevented this from happening years ago. But at least now the silence has been broken. It can only get better from here. 

*** 

I wake in the morning filled with the odd feeling that it’s the first day of holidays or something. I yawn and frown at the same time, trying to put my finger on the feeling, then remember: Sherlock!! I sit bolt upright in bed, then flop back down again, smiling stupidly all over myself, revelling in the memory of last night all over again. What time is it? I glance at the clock on the night stand: it’s just after ten. And we’re going for brunch at eleven! This thought is enough to spur me out of bed. I grab at my dressing gown and tie it hastily around myself, then thunder down the stairs to get into the shower. 

To my surprise, Sherlock is already up and sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and scanning something on his laptop screen. He looks up at me, his expression very slightly apprehensive. “Good morning,” he says, but I can hear it in his voice, too: he’s a little nervous. (Why? Afraid I’ve changed my mind?) 

I beam at him, unable to repress it. (God, what a fucking sop I am!) “Morning!” I say in return. “You’re up earlier than I thought.” 

Sherlock looks slightly confused. I notice then that his curls are still wet. “Aren’t we going for brunch at eleven?” 

“Of course,” I say. “You’re just – ready awfully early. It’s – yeah. It’s fine!” We sound like two awkward teens on a first date, I think. 

“I wanted to be out of your way,” Sherlock explains, then gestures at the screen. “And I still can’t seem to make up my mind, so I’m reading menus…” 

I can’t help it. I go to him and take his face in my hands. “I’m sure whatever you choose will be perfect,” I tell him, meaning it. “After yesterday, nothing could ruin having brunch together.” 

Sherlock almost smiles, but says, warningly, “Lestrade could call with a case…” 

“Then that would be fun, too,” I assure him firmly. “As long as I’m with you, I’ll be happy.” 

Sherlock does smile now and the anxiety fades from his face. “All right,” he says. 

I bend and kiss him and his hands come up to settle on my hips as I press my lips to his, bolts of warmth pulsing through my frame. After a bit, I straighten up again, still smiling down at him. “I’ll, er, just pop into the shower, then.” 

Sherlock acquiesces and releases me. “Okay. I’ll have made a choice by the time you come out.” 

“No rush,” I assure him, and take myself off down the corridor. I feel like whistling or doing heel clicks or something, but the latter would be particularly undignified. 

Once I’m dry and dressed, we leave. Sherlock takes us to a place we’ve never been to before, called Granger & Co in Notting Hill, and informs me in the taxi that we’ve got a reservation. It’s perfect: we both order their signature ricotta pancakes with bananas and something they call honeycomb butter with peach bellinis, and it’s incredibly delicious. We don’t hold hands across the table or anything ridiculous like that, but every now and then he catches my eye and smiles, but always at an angle, slanted up through his eyelashes or a passing glance and smile as he looks off somewhere else, and I can’t tell if he’s feeling shy or just not quite sure of how we’re supposed to be acting now. We’re out of the woods, that’s for sure, but there’s still a lot that isn’t known for both of us. I want to lean over and reassure him, tell him that I know as much as he does about exactly what comes next, but I don’t. 

After we’ve eaten, we go outside and stroll through the market. It’s busy, bustling with tourists and locals alike. I can literally feel him close by me in the crowd, the backs of our hands occasionally brushing, our arms touching through my jacket and his coat, and every time it happens, something in my gut glows. I’m fucking head over heels and it’s deliriously wonderful. I want to lead him into some little alcove and kiss him for three hours. Three months. I don’t care who would see us. 

Maybe something like this is going through his head, too, as we peruse the offerings and chat lightly about antiques, vegetables, art pieces, and that, because at one point our fingers brush again and he hooks his little finger into mine. It’s subtle and a bit silly at the same time, but the last thing I would ever do is refuse him this – if anything, my heart is all but bursting over it, at him wanting to touch me in some way as much as I want to be touching him. I hold his little finger firmly with mine as we shuffle through the market, and a few moments later, he looks back over his shoulder at me and gives me a smile that’s half-smirk, and my need to kiss him grows substantially. 

We’re at a fruit stall now and Sherlock says something about the pears, asking if we should get some. He’s looking down into my eyes, waiting for my answer, but somehow I get stuck, staring into those oceanic eyes of his and stutter something incoherent along the lines of “If you like…” A small smile appears on his lips and he swiftly bends and kisses me, just the once, and the next thing I know, I’m blinking and he’s talking to the merchant, asking about the price, the warmth of the kiss still tingling on my lips. (Christ, I’m fucking _gone_ on him!) We’re forced to let go briefly so that Sherlock can put some pears into a bag, but then I’m there ahead of him when it comes time to pay, holding out a ten-pound note to the merchant. I take my change, Sherlock takes the pears in his right hand and reaches for my right with his left, slipping all five fingers into mine this time. Overtly. 

He looks at me, that small smile still hovering about his mouth. “Okay?” he asks, and I nod. 

“Very okay,” I say, and his smile grows a little, a faint air of triumph about it now. (Did he actually think there was a possibility I wouldn’t want to hold his hand or something? Or maybe it’s just the public nature of it he thought I might balk at. Fuck that. He’s mine now and I don’t give three shits who knows it. I want the world to know it, and weep. They called him a freak for all his life, made him feel small. I was one of them, too, for a while. Never again.) Right then and there on the pavement, I silently vow to myself that I will never, for as long as I live, make him feel worthless ever again. 

We’ve reached the end of the street and I find him looking at me oddly. “You all right?” he asks. 

I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Yeah,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I am now.” 

*** 

When we get home, we’ve barely got our coats off when the kissing starts again. The pears get dropped on the side table beside my chair and then his arms are around me, his long form more relaxed than it was yesterday, easier about being pressed up against me. I decide to introduce the concept of open-mouthed kissing and begin gently sucking the full curve of his lower lip and feel him exhale through his nose. He gets it immediately and starts doing the same thing, and doesn’t object in the slightest when I seal my open mouth over his, letting our breath mingle, my arms tight around his back. To my surprise, it’s Sherlock who first – very tentatively, albeit, but – reaches out and touches his tongue to mine. I make a sound I didn’t mean to make, then another one of encouragement, to let him know that I liked it. He’s a quick learner, which shouldn’t have surprised me in the slightest, but he nonetheless did surprise me just now, in the best of ways. The kiss immediately gets more passionate and his hands move from where they are around my shoulders and up into my hair, which is a huge turn-on. I rub my hands over his back, careful to stay above the waist (at least for now!) and feel his breath quicken. It feels so good – I don’t know when kissing ever felt _this_ passionate for me, this important. I love him. I love him so much I think I’ll explode with it, and I feel absolutely fucking giddy over the fact that I’m allowed to do this now: stand in the middle of the Baker Street sitting room on a sunny Sunday in April and kiss Sherlock Holmes. I feel like I just won the pools. 

Eventually, Sherlock breaks it off, breathing deeply as he looks down into my eyes, his giant, beautiful hands cradling my entire skull. “You,” he says with feeling. 

I can’t even laugh so much as just stare up at him in frank wonder. “Me what?” I ask, my arms still wrapped around him. 

“You are phenomenal, John Watson,” Sherlock says, his thumbs pressing into my cheekbones. 

I smile at him, aware that I’m a sentimental, romantic idiot, and somehow totally fine with it. “I thought that was my line,” I say, and he just kisses me again without another word. It goes on for rather a long time and I love it, but it’s also causing things to stir south of the border, so after a bit I pull away. “Sofa?” I ask, and he agrees. We go and sit down and I take his hand and then a deep breath. “There’s still so much I don’t know,” I say carefully, not wanting to misstep here. 

He blinks but his eyes are focused keenly on me. “Like what?” 

I hesitate. “You don’t have to say, if you’d rather not,” I begin. “But I’m – curious. Terribly curious, if you want to know, and – well – since there’s a chance it might, er, affect me in some way at some point, I – ” God, I’m making a hash of this. 

Sherlock takes pity on me. “You want to ask about my… sexual history,” he supplies, searching my eyes. 

I bite my lip and nod. “Only if you’re willing to talk about it,” I say quickly. 

His lips compress a little, but he says. “That’s easy: I haven’t got any.” 

It’s my turn to blink. “Any – sexual history?” I ask, clarifying, and he nods, seeming fairly nonchalant about it, yet there’s a line between his eyes that suggests more tension than he’s letting on. 

“It’s a blank slate,” he says delicately. “Theoretical information only. Problem?” 

He looks up at me with that last, his eyes very blue at the moment, and the word is very slightly defensive. I shake my head. “No – of course not!” I say. “I just – wondered, since we’re… well. This, now.” 

Sherlock’s shoulders relax fractionally. “Of course you wondered. And of course you have every right to ask,” he says. He runs the fingers of the hand I’m not holding through his curls, then looks slantwise at me. “Are you disappointed?” he asks bluntly. 

It takes me a moment to even comprehend the question. “Wha – disap _point_ ed – are you – ” He’s not joking. That much is clear. I clear my throat and try again. “ _No_ , Sherlock!” It comes out forcefully. (Jesus. I’m pants at this sort of thing.) “Not at _all_! And – look, I don’t mean to – I mean, we don’t have to – to do anything you don’t want, or don’t feel comfortable with, ever – I mean that. I just – I mean, I’ll be happy with – well – anything, or – what I mean is, I’ll be happy with as little or as much as you ever want to try.” I blow out my breath and meet his gaze, trying to gauge his response. “I mean that. Nothing _needs_ to happen at all, ever. I just – ”

Sherlock blinks rapidly several times, then mercifully takes the reins. “What makes you think that my inexperience thus far equates to a lack of interest in ever gaining said experience?” 

This shuts me up. Then my tongue loosens and I say, “Really? I mean – are you? Interested, I mean?” 

Suddenly Sherlock smiles and it goes straight to my crotch, my jeans growing tighter. “With you?” he says, his eyes on mine, his voice low. “Yes. Very much so. I just – I mean, I’ve no idea what I’m doing, of course, but – yes, John. When the – time comes… yes.” 

Relief floods through my being. I hear myself say his name and then we’re kissing again, mouths open, tongues pushing together from the start this time, and I have to actively restrain myself from jumping him right here and now. He just said _When the times comes_ , which certainly sounds like _not now/yet_ , so I’ve got to rein myself in for the time being. Settling for snogging him as deeply as I know how is hardly anything to sneer at, though, so I give it my all, and he’s doing the same and it’s fucking fantastic. 

His phones chimes with a text: Lestrade’s ping. I groan into his mouth and he pulls away, looking apologetic. “I don’t have to – ” he begins, but I cut him off. 

“No. Go ahead. It’s all right.” And it is. It really is, because this is us: this is who we are, what we do. I clear my throat and suppress the urge to adjust myself. 

Sherlock extracts his phone and looks at the screen. “There’s a crime,” he says, almost reluctantly. “An art theft at the National Gallery.” He turns the screen toward me. 

I scan it quickly. “Well, we’d better get going, then,” I say. 

His expression turns to something akin to disbelief. “Are you sure?” he asks, almost hesitating. 

He wants to go. That alone seals it. Besides, I want to, too. I love doing this with him. I love kissing him, too, but – “Of course,” I say firmly. “We’ve got all the time in the world for this. We’ll come home later, and if we haven’t solved it by then, it can wait until we have. Whatever it takes.” 

Sherlock swallows and his eyes turn somehow even bluer. “I love you,” he says, and it’s heart-stopping. 

I reach for his face and kiss him almost fiercely. “I love you, too,” I murmur. “Now let’s go catch an art thief, you brilliant thing.” 

*** 

The case is fantastic, full of inexplicable mystery and I love watching every fuse of Sherlock’s interest spark and catch, lighting him up with intrigued fascination. The case spreads out over the afternoon and evening, and finally there’s nothing left to do but wait for a file transfer from Moscow, a cold case from seven years ago that never got solved. Lestrade sends us home, since there’s nothing more to be done until the file comes. Sherlock’s made what looks like a shaky connection between this case and that one, based on exactly _one_ similarity between the cases, which is that the thief left a right thumbprint (unidentified, it goes without saying) on the bottom right corner of the wall from which the painting was stolen. There are a couple of other similarities, too, but they’re hardly unique: the thief managed to avoid the cameras, was thought to have been in the building the entire time and set off no alarms. It’s the thumbprint that’s caught Sherlock’s interest, though, so I go with it. He’s almost always right. We’re unable to work out a motive, though: the painting stolen is an idyllic scene of a lake bordered by willows, a few clouds scattered across a blue sky. (The manager brought us a postcard version to have a look.) There’s nothing else of the same artist’s that was taken, and nothing suspicious about the artist herself. 

So we go home. It’s close to one in the morning, so we go fairly directly to the loo to get ready for bed, brushing our teeth and that. Sherlock circumspectly goes into his bedroom, saying that he’s just going to change, and closes the door behind him, obviously giving me a chance to use the toilet without him there. I relieve myself, then flush, and wash my hands. I’m just inspecting my stubble when Sherlock comes back in. He surprises me by putting his hands on my hips and bending over my shoulder to kiss me on the temple. 

“Thank you for everything you did today,” he says, and I smile at him in the mirror. 

“It’s what we do,” I remind him, putting my hands on top of his. “No need to thank me for that.” 

He kisses me again, his lips in my hair, his eyes on mine through the mirror, and it’s openly provocative. I turn around and take his face and kiss him on the mouth and he responds immediately, opening his mouth to me and putting his arms around my back.

We kiss for a long, really good moment. I break off after a bit and say, “Don’t stay up all night thinking about this, now. Get some sleep.” 

“I will,” Sherlock promises, but he’s clearly much more interested in kissing me again, which he does. Fine by me, I think, and go with it, kissing back hard, our mouths sucking at each other’s, tongues stroking firmly. He’s leaning me up against the edge of the counter, the hard line of it pressing into my arse, but it’s fine. We kiss and kiss and it’s great, but then suddenly he inhales sharply and pulls his hips away and then his mouth, too. He’s breathing quickly and I clue in pretty fast to what the problem might be. Before I can say anything, though, Sherlock touches his tongue to his lower lip and says, hastily, “Okay. Good night, then.” 

He backs up and makes for his bedroom, but not before I’ve caught a glimpse of the considerable bulge in his flimsy pyjama pants. “Good night,” I say, but it nearly comes out in a groan; the sight of him like that just went straight to my crotch. 

I get myself upstairs as fast as I can, tear off my clothes and slap at the light switch, getting into bed naked with one hand already wrapped around my cock. I reach for a palmful of lube and go at it, moaning quietly, one hundred percent certain this time that he’s doing the exact same thing below me. I watch him in my mind’s eye, furtively jerking himself off under the cover of his blankets, his beautiful face contorted, breathing hard – the next time it happens, maybe he’ll want to do something about it together, I think, and the thought sends me over the edge, making a mess of my hands and sheets. I lie there, panting, and silently wish him an equally good orgasm. I feel a proprietary pride about it, since I think I can safely allow myself to believe that I directly inspired it. After a bit, I reach for some tissues and clean up the best I can, then roll away from the wet spot, set the alarm on my phone, and go to sleep. 

*** 

He’s in my room before the alarm goes off, though. I wake suddenly, him bending over me, and realise he’s said my name. I start and blink at him sleepily. “Sherlock?” My voice is scratchy. 

He looks apologetic. “Sorry,” he says. He’s sitting on the edge of my bed, already dressed, his curls wet. “I knocked, but you were sleeping rather deeply. I didn’t want to wake you, but Lestrade texted to say that the file just came in.” 

My brain comes on properly. “Oh,” I say. “Okay – yeah, we should go. I’ll, er, be right down.” 

Sherlock nods, his eyes travelling down over my obviously-bare chest to where the blanket stops partway up my belly. “Okay,” he says, his voice a bit unfocused. 

I grin at him suddenly. “Making observations?” I ask, digging, but nicely. 

Sherlock’s eyes flick back to mine. “You’re naked,” he states. 

“Sure am.” I stretch, knowing that it will cause the blanket to shift down even further, and smirk at him a little. 

Sherlock swallows visibly, then puts his large, warm hand in the centre of my chest and bends over to kiss me – on the chin, oddly, then on the corner of my jaw, then my cheek. I put my hand on his cheek and guide his mouth to mine and kiss him hungrily. No tongue this time, just a long, sweet press of his mouth on mine, our lips open just a little. He pulls away after a bit, his pupils dilated in the dim light of my bedroom. “I’ll let you get up,” he says, and swiftly goes to the door. 

I’m half-hard again, though I probably woke up that way. I’d love to go and take care of it in the shower, but he’s probably itching to go. I sigh instead and pull some clothes on, then jog down the stairs to where he’s waiting in the kitchen. He hands me a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, spread liberally with butter and jam, the way he knows I like it. I thank him and gulp it all down, and then we’re on the pavement and calling for a cab. 

At the Yard, we act the same way as we always did around each other, but his voice is a little warmer whenever he talks to me. It takes me until now to realise that it always was warmer for me than it was for the others in the past, too. We read through the file, and something it in sets him off. That does it; we’re off and running again, and the exhilaration of it bolts through me in spades. 

By two in the afternoon we’re waiting outside the suspect’s office with a warrant and tackle him when he emerges to refill his coffee. Sherlock explains it all in bits and pieces as he gets the confession out of the thief, followed by the location of the stolen painting. Long story: it had something to do with recognising the lake in the artist’s painting, which had been misidentified by scholars as a place in the Lake District but was, in fact, Lake Galichskoye in central Russia. The thief and the artist had once seemingly shared – as Sherlock delicately put it, an intimate moment there, and the brief affair came to a bitter end for the thief. 

“So you thought you’d steal her painting,” Sherlock says in disgust. “You do realise that it didn’t belong to her anymore and that you were stealing from the National Gallery instead.” 

The thief is surly, however, and refuses to answer. Lestrade looks at me, eyebrows raised in question, and I look the question at Sherlock. He nods, so I say, “Yeah, I think we’re about finished here. If the painting isn’t where he says, we’ll know where to find him.” 

“It’s there,” the thief says, scowling. “I wasn’t even going to sell it. I just wanted to have it. It was… the only thing I had of hers.” 

For a moment, Sherlock’s eyes meet mine. I can just hear him thinking _Love is a vicious motivator_. “But the other painting, the one you stole from the gallery in Moscow, was that also meant to be nothing more than a fond reminder?” he asks, his eyes narrowing. 

The thief hesitates, and I think _Gotcha_. He’s finished. “What other painting?” he tries, but it’s weak. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says impatiently. “ _Луна на воде_ , of course. Same artist. Same lake, I presume. It’s quite obvious. So what have you done with it? Is that tucked away in your garret somewhere, too, or did you do the obvious thing and sell it? Come on, out with it.” 

Anger clouds the thief’s face. “ _Луна на воде_ was painted the night we were there,” he snarls. “She had no right to sell it to the gallery after she left me!” 

“So where is it now?” Sherlock asks, drumming his fingers on the wall. “Come on, just tell us. How much did you get for it on the black market?” 

“You know we’ll find it in your banking records,” I remind him. “Better just to tell us now. Cooperating could help reduce your sentence.” 

Lestrade sends me a warning look as if to say, _Not bloody likely_ , but I ignore it. The thief hesitates, then spills. It’s all over then. Lestrade frogmarches him off to the cruiser, sends a crew to recuperate the nicked painting, and Sherlock and I are free to go. 

We grin at each other outside on the pavement and I say, under my breath, “Didn’t know you spoke Russian.” 

Sherlock shrugs modestly. “It’s come in handy from time to time.”

“It was a bit of a turn-on, hearing you speak it,” I say, and am rewarded by his cheeks flushing a little. 

“Really?” he asks, glancing sideways at me. “It was just the title of the painting.” 

I move closer to him, subtly. “Say it again.” 

“ _Луна на воде_ ,” he says, then repeats it slower. “ _Luna na vadyeh_. Moon on the water.” 

My hands are on his lapels. “Mmm,” I respond dreamily, looking up into his eyes. 

He looks down into them, then at my hands on his coat. “I was going to ask if you’re hungry,” he begins. “However…”

I smile back at him, and relax my grip on his lapels. “If it comes to that, I _am_ ,” I admit. I glance around. “Is there anything good around here?” 

“Let me check.” Sherlock pulls out his phone and begins typing rapidly with his thumbs. He looks up and around us, then asks, “Italian?”

“Sure,” I say, and he nods with his forehead to indicate the direction. 

The restaurant he finds is delicious, reminiscent of Angelo’s. He orders gnocchi in pesto cream with roasted chicken and I have tagliatelle in rosé sauce with prawns, and both dishes are fantastic. He orders half a bottle of the house white with it, and it feels like a feast. We talk about the case and he explains, linking the thumbprint to the thief’s jealousy and resentment, and the undercurrent of boasting/wanting to get caught. It’s a familiar enough theme by now and it all makes sense. Under the table, his shoe is touching mine. The server comes by and asks hopefully about dessert. We decline and Sherlock asks for the bill. 

I reach for his wrist across the table. “You should let me pay,” I try, but he shakes his head. 

“Please,” he says. “Let me. It’s a trust fund. It’s meaningless to me save to allow me to make things simple for us both. Let’s not get – complicated about these things just because things have changed. If anything, that should make it even simpler, I should have thought.” 

I think of half a dozen things to say in response to this, but decide not to say any of them. “Okay,” I say, trying not to sound too dubious. I let go of his wrist and sit back. 

Sherlock looks down at his wrist, then gives me one of those small, quirky smiles of his. “You didn’t have to stop that,” he says, so I relax and reach for his hand this time, holding it and smiling foolishly into his eyes. 

He doesn’t let go when the server comes, either. The server pretends not to notice and Sherlock punches in the right numbers on the portable machine with his left hand, which makes me want to laugh and kiss him at the same time. Outside, he waves down a taxi and I actively restrain the urge to kiss him, to unbutton his coat and step inside it. His very proximity is like a drug to me and I feel heady with it. I already know that we’re going to start snogging again the instant we’re inside, and I can’t fucking wait. He probably knows that we both got ourselves off after that kiss last night. He probably knows that I know, and that knowledge is going to have an effect on whatever comes next, I’m pretty sure. 

When we get upstairs at the flat, he unzips my jacket before I can and pulls it off me, hanging it roughly on a hook on the back of the door and shedding his coat before I can even say a word. “Sofa,” he requests, or directs, but it doesn’t matter. I’d agree either way. We’re kissing before we’re even sat down, collapsing into the corner of the sofa in a pile, me leaning him into its back, his arms strong around me. 

I’m holding his face, one leg tucked under me, the other half on top of his. “God, it’s a relief that you like this,” I murmur after a few glorious minutes have gone by. “I’d no idea you would like kissing this much.” 

Sherlock opens his eyes. They’ve darkened to sapphire and their slant makes him look particularly alluring at the moment, along with the curving smile on his lips. “Kissing _you_ ,” he corrects me. “Besides, we got interrupted yesterday.”

“That we did.” I kiss him again, and he responds with equal hunger, his hands rubbing over my back, up my neck and into my hair, and I can feel my heart pounding. I kiss his neck and throat and jawline and can feel his breath and heartbeat against my lips, my tongue. 

“John…” He says my name, shifting, tugging me down onto him, and the next thing I know, we’re lying down, me on top of him, and still kissing like mad. Our mouths are open, tongues rubbing together, and I’m definitely hard. I can feel him, too, and it brings saliva to my mouth. I don’t know what he wants, though, what he’s ready for, so I don’t grind against him or anything. But then he puts his hands on my arse and I get even harder. God, it feels good! Those giant, delicate hands of his were made bespoke for my arse in particular, and he’s shifting me so that we’re pressing together, right there, his cock as hard through his trousers as mine is in my jeans. 

I lift my head and look down into his face. “Yeah?” I ask, and it’s breathy. “You like – this?” 

Sherlock nods, looking a bit unsure of himself, but he says, “Yes – please, John – ”

So I put my mouth back on his and begin to move, circling my hips gently, keeping the pressure evenly distributed. It feels good – better than it’s got any call to, when it’s just humping through our clothes, not to be too blunt about it. But it’s Sherlock, and feeling him hard against me, hard for me – fuck if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve experienced in a decade. Jesus. My heart is jackhammering in my chest and throat and we’re both breathing hard, through our noses. When it gets to be too much to kiss, I lift my mouth off and press my cheek into his instead, thrusting and rocking against him. His fingers are digging into the meat of my arse and he’s panting against my cheek, not saying anything, just breathing and breathing, and I’m getting close but I don’t want to come before he has, so I murmur, “That’s it, just like that – God, you feel so good, you’re so hard – ” Sherlock makes a single, desperate sound and for a moment his hands scrabble, frantically grabbing any part of me he can touch and then his body stiffens and rises, shuddering against me, his breathing stopping and then gusting out as he comes in three tight releases of air. And knowing that he’s just come, had his first orgasm with anyone in the world, and that it was with me – that sends me over the edge. With the sound of those choked-out breaths in my ears, I finally let myself go and rut frantically against him, and twenty seconds later I’m there, sailing, wetness soaking into my underwear and sliding back to coat my balls. I pant into his jaw, my chest heaving, my crotch still pressed into his, too sensitive to pull away just yet. 

Sherlock puts his hands into my hair, still panting, probably unable to speak, and for several minutes we lie there like that, and it’s pretty fucking wonderful. 

After a bit, I raise my head and put my hands on his face, kissing his hot cheeks and his forehead and then his mouth again, and he kisses back and it’s long and sweet and I feel giddy over how in love I am with him. After, I stroke his hair back from his forehead. “You okay?” I ask in a murmur, keeping the question light. 

Sherlock nods. “Was that – all right?” he asks, sounding a bit shy. “I mean – it wasn’t too – ”

He stops, so I have to prod. “Too what?” I ask. 

He makes a movement that might be a shrug. “I don’t know. Juvenile or something. I mean, it was just – ”

“I haven’t done that in a while – come in my pants like that, but it was great,” I tell him honestly. I kiss him again. “I’d do that with you any time. I mean that, Sherlock. And it was incredibly special, too.” 

This makes him blink a little. “Was it?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. When I nod, he says, “It was for me, too. I’m – glad you don’t mind that it was so – basic.” 

I stroke his face again, feeling so much for him that it must be welling out my eyes and all over my face. “There was nothing ‘basic’ about it,” I say softly. “It was you and me. Having that experience together for the first time. That’s all that matters.” I kiss him lingeringly, then ask, “Did you like it?” 

Sherlock gives me a wry smile. “I think that the state of my trousers could certainly be taken as evidence that I did.” 

I smile back at him, playful. “I’m not asking the evidence,” I say. “I’m asking _you_.” 

Sherlock looks up into my eyes, his face unusually open and vulnerable. “I loved it,” he says, and it’s so unvarnished that it makes my heart ache. 

I’ve no choice but to kiss him again, so I do. It goes on until we both start to feel disgusting in our soiled pants and trousers. “I should take a shower,” I say. “I didn’t have time this morning.” 

Sherlock nods, and allows me to pull myself up and off him. He gets to his feet, too, kissing me again before I can leave. “Sorry,” he says after, with a sheepish half-smile. “It’s hard to resist the urge.” 

“No argument from me on that score,” I assure him. I hesitate, thinking of asking if he’d like to come and shower with me, but we haven’t even seen each other naked yet. Even his near nudity in that ridiculously tiny towel the other day doesn’t count. It would be too much too soon. Besides, if he wanted that, maybe he’d say so himself. I mean, everything else that’s happened has essentially been at his instigation. He’s not shy, exactly, just inexperienced. I take a long, hot shower and wash myself thoroughly, and when I come out twenty minutes later, he’s made tea and is typing up the case for his blog at end of the kitchen table. 

“I made tea,” he says, a bit absently, not looking up from his laptop, and I notice that he’s also changed his clothes. 

I go over and bend to kiss the top of his head, squeezing the back of his neck. “I’ll just go up and put some fresh clothes on and then I’ll come back and have some,” I promise, and Sherlock tips his head back to smile at me. It might also be a somewhat obvious bid for a kiss, so I drop my mouth down to his and let him have it (who am I kidding? Let myself, more like), my hand in his hair.

He doesn’t say anything, just smiles some more and I think to myself that his smiles are going to give me a heart condition. I jog upstairs grinning like an idiot and pull on some clean clothes. The flat is warm enough to go barefoot, so I do, pulling on a pair of jeans and a burgundy jumper that his mother gave me for Christmas last year, just before all the Eurus stuff went down. Sometimes I wear it when I know I’m going to see them, but secretly I think Sherlock likes that I wear it for his mother, too. He’s never said anything, but I’ve caught him glancing at it more than once, an almost-smile playing about that expressive mouth of his. I give myself a quick check in the mirror, comb my damp hair into a better arrangement with my fingers, then go back downstairs. I get my laptop from the desk and bring it over to the table, joining Sherlock, and he gets up to get another mug and pours me a cup of tea. He’s made a blend of oolong with pu’erh and it’s good. 

“This is nice,” I comment, not wanting to bug him, but he makes a humming sound of thanks. I start my own blog entry and type up my version of the case. 

Sherlock gets up after awhile, maybe half an hour later, and puts the kettle on again. That done, he comes to read over my shoulder, nodding approvingly. “You figured out the Russian,” he says. “I’m impressed.” 

I smile, my eyes still on the screen. “Google translate. It was easy enough.” 

“And here I thought I was being all esoteric, trying to impress you with my foreign language skills.” Sherlock huffs a laugh into my ear. 

Now I do look back at him, grinning. “Were you actually? Well, it obviously worked. I still maintain that it was hot.” 

Sherlock smirks and kisses my cheek. “Good,” he says, and retreats to his chair. 

The afternoon stretches out and becomes evening. Sherlock gets up, shuts his laptop, and goes to light the fire after a bit. I stand up and stretch, too, yawning. “You getting hungry?” I ask. 

Sherlock makes a thinking sound. “Starting to, now that you mention it. What are you thinking?” 

“Not sure,” I say. “We could cook something. I feel like staying in.” 

“All right.” Sherlock agrees easily, arranging his kindling just so. “What should we make?” 

I go to the fridge and peer inside. “We’ve still got that chicken breast,” I say. “What about doing in a Thai peanut coconut sauce?” 

Sherlock makes a sound of definite approval now. “Perfect. Rice or rice noodles?” 

I think. “Rice noodles,” I decide. “I know we just had pasta for lunch, but this goes better with rice noodles, I think.” 

“Suits me.” Sherlock puts the final log in place, and strikes his one match. 

I look back over my shoulder, always curious to see if it will work, even though it nearly always does. The kindling catches and Sherlock bends over to blow gently at the base of the fire and it occurs to me again that I’m impossibly, hopelessly, helplessly in love with him and always have been. _God_ , it took us a long time to get here! 

He sits back on his heels, then feels my gaze and looks over. “What?” he asks, shaking his curls back from his eyes. 

Somehow I can’t even quite say it. “Come here,” I say instead, my throat tight. 

If Sherlock is perplexed, he doesn’t say so. Instead he gets up and obediently comes, stopping in front of me and touching my cheek. “What is it?” he asks then, his voice soft. 

“Just – you. This,” I say inarticulately, putting my hands on his waist. “I just – how did it take us so long, Sherlock? I mean, I _know_ , but – all that time we wasted, all that – pain. But now – ”

His eyes search mine, waiting, and when I don’t finish the sentence, he picks it up. “But now, we’re here,” he says gently. He puts his lips to my forehead, then his arms around my shoulders and speaks into my hair. “It feels both incredibly novel, yet strangely natural at the same time.” 

My cheek is pressing into his ear. “Yeah – that’s exactly it,” I say, my arms around his back, drinking him in. “I can’t get enough of this. Of you. Of us being what we were always supposed to be.” 

“Quite,” Sherlock says, then pulls back just enough to kiss me.

He’s gone from novice to expert in just three days, which shouldn’t be surprising in any way, but it’s still amazing. We kiss deeply, no holds barred, our tongues and jaws moving, and I put all of those years of unspoken love into it. The rest of the world stops mattering. He’s all there is, at least for me. I know what a bloody sap that makes me, but I couldn’t care less if you put a gun to my head. Besides, he’d save me, anyway. He always does. 

We pull ourselves together after a bit and Sherlock puts his lips to my forehead again. “Should we cook?” he asks, so I agree. 

“Yeah. Let’s.” I smile at him and try to get it together. He follows me to the fridge and we collect garlic, onions, a red pepper, fresh cilantro, a lime, two carrots, and the chicken, and the normalcy of the routine saves me. He takes the garlic, red pepper, and onions, so I take the chicken and begin to trim it and slice it in long strips. We julienne the carrots and red pepper and mince the garlic and onions. I turn up the heat under the big pan and put some fragrant sesame oil in to warm. 

“So this is just how it is now,” Sherlock muses. “You and me. Doing this, only – like this, now.” 

“You and me and sometimes Rosie,” I remind him. “But yeah.” 

“Of course, Rosie too. It’s astounding, how this can elevate the mundane into the extraordinary,” Sherlock says, slicing the lime in half and squeezing the juice into a small bowl. 

I glance at him, smiling. “What, cooking?” 

He leans over and puts his lips on my forehead, speaking against it. “Cooking with _you_ ,” he corrects me, then kisses me and moves away again. 

My gut is glowing with warmth. He’s right, though: everything is different now. We’ve gone from black and white to colour here. It’s like a dance, us moving around each other, touching on purpose in any way we can, using any flimsy excuse to do so. It’s incredibly clear that he’s just as head-over-heels as I am, too, and I love it – love it shamelessly. I open a can of coconut milk with his arms around me from behind, kissing my ear, and laugh and laugh at the silliness of it. We nearly burn the entire thing at one point, getting distracted kissing again, and even that’s fine. 

“Whoops,” Sherlock says mildly. “Add some more coconut milk. It’ll be fine.” 

I snicker and stir a little more in and he places six nests of rice noodles in the pot of boiling water. I turn down the heat under the pan and go to set the table. “Should I open some wine?” I suggest. 

Sherlock agrees readily. “Red or white? I think we have both. That chianti that Henderson’s widow gave us a couple of weeks ago, and that Riesling we bought. We still have the second bottle.” 

“Let’s drink that. I think white goes better with Thai,” I say, and go to the fridge to get it. 

Sherlock drains the rice noodles and stirs them into the rest, then dishes it all into a big, glass bowl and scatters chopped cilantro and peanuts over the top. “Voilà,” he says, bringing it to the table. “Compliments of Chefs Watson and Holmes.” 

I laugh. “When we get tired of crime-solving, we can open a restaurant,” I say, and that makes Sherlock smile to himself, occupying himself with unfolding his serviette. 

“You think you’ll still be around that long?” he asks lightly, but I can hear the serious undertones to it. 

It’s too soon to say things like _Fuck yes, Sherlock, I’m in this for life, you know_ just yet, so I swallow and fill his wineglass. “I should expect so,” I say, mirroring his lightness, then pour myself a glass and clear my throat. “To the chefs,” I say, lifting my glass. 

Sherlock touches his glass to mine, his eyes bracketed with more emotion than I usually see in them. “To us,” he says quietly, and my chest aches. I want to go and kiss him again, but that might be a bit much. 

Instead, I smile around the jagged edges in my throat and sip my wine. Our meal is delicious. We do cook rather well together. Our styles have finally merged over the years. When I first moved in with him, my cooking tended to be nothing terribly special, but it was filling and good and there was always lots of it. Sherlock’s cooking tended toward the gourmet, when he cooked at all, and he was fond of buying expensive, esoteric things like quail eggs and truffles. He knew how to prepare them, too – anyone that good at chemistry should be able to cook reasonably well, he always said, but I used to retort things about eyeballs in the microwave in response. No wonder his sense of humour about me grew to have sharper edges, too. I sigh inwardly. Maybe we’ve finally learned how to be kind to each other. It seems like a bare minimum! His comments were always less barbed than mine, but he made up for it in spades when it came to my girlfriends. At least up until Mary, and then I suppose he was just careful. He knew she was there to stay – at least, we all thought so at the time – and thought he couldn’t say anything about her that would drive me away. 

After dinner, we watch an episode of a crime procedural that’s on right now and he picks apart their processes and ridicules the plot. I comment on the dialogue and a spot of bad acting here and there, and we enjoy the entire thing immensely. His arm is around my shoulders and my fingers are laced into his other hand. After the episode, we watch the late news, but there’s nothing interesting on. Sherlock switches off the telly and pulls me to my feet. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get ready for bed.” 

There’s nothing inherently sexual about the way he says it, but there’s an interesting light in his eyes that sends a tingle down my spine. He doesn’t say anything while we’re brushing our teeth. I decide to shave, so he joins me. After I’ve patted my face dry, I put on a small amount of aftershave and Sherlock does the same with his own, then leans in to sniff at my neck. 

“I love that,” he says, his voice low in its register. “I always have. It’s a bit of an aphrodisiac, if you want to know.” 

I feel my eyebrows jag up at that. “I definitely want to know,” I say, and lean in to kiss him. 

He doesn’t resist at all, winding his arms around my shoulders, one hand in the hair at the back of my head. He’s getting less and less inhibited, I think hazily, loving the feel of his tongue against mine. I go for his throat again and he lets his head fall back, his lips parted, and lets me kiss my way back to his mouth. I’m getting hard and know I should stop this and go upstairs – after this afternoon on the sofa, we’ve already crossed a big line for him today. I don’t want to push my luck. Plus I don’t want him thinking that I’m a completely randy horndog with no self-control (debatable as that is) and get scared off, either. 

Better sooner than later, then. I break off the kiss, breathing hard, my forehead leaning against his. “I should head upstairs,” I say, trying to will myself to let go of him. He feels so good in my arms, though. So right. He’s always belonged there and now I’m just soaking it in, as though trying to make up for all of the past five years or so retroactively. 

Sherlock doesn’t respond right away, breathing a bit quickly, himself. Then he says, slowly, “Or… not. You could… stay down here. If you want.”

I pull my head back so that I can look into his eyes. (Am I supposed to be a gentleman and turn this down? Or would he take that as a rejection?) I search his face. “Are you – sure?” I ask. “I mean, I would – I would love that, Sherlock. But only if you’re sure. There’s no rush, you know.” 

Sherlock’s lips press together a little. “I know that. And yes. I’m sure. Stay.” He hesitates. “Please.” 

The _please_ sells me. I nod. “Yeah.” It comes out half-whispered. “I’d – really like that.” 

We leave the loo then, Sherlock switching off the light and leading me by the hand. I survey the bed and suddenly it hits me: I’m really about to sleep with him. In whatever sense of the term. Sherlock is watching me carefully. “What is it?” he asks. 

I shake my head, trying to get the tightness to leave my throat. “My pyjamas are upstairs. Do you want me to…?” 

“No,” Sherlock says quickly. “Don’t leave. You don’t need pyjamas. Besides, I thought you didn’t even wear them.” 

Somehow this relaxes me and I grin. “It depends on the night,” I say. “I was – in a bit of a rush last night.” 

Sherlock smirks openly at this and it takes even more of the tension away. “I see,” he says archly. He goes round to the far side of the bed. “In that case, do as you like. You prefer the right side, don’t you?” 

I could ask how he’s deduced that, but decide not to. “I do,” I allow. I go over and put my phone, watch, and wallet on the nightstand. I’m about to sleep in Sherlock Holmes’ bed. With Sherlock. I turn on the lamp, then go over and switch off the overhead light. Less pressure that way. When I turn around, I see that Sherlock has quickly got himself into bed during that brief interval. I strip down to my underwear and get in beside him, feeling almost as nervous as I did the very first time. He’s lying on his side, facing me, so I mirror him. 

His eyes are openly curious. “I’ve never done this before,” he confesses. 

I feel my brows lift. “Slept with someone?” I ask. 

“In the most literal sense, yes. As well as every other possible sense.” Sherlock curls his hands under his chin, his eyes still riveted to mine. He shifts a little so that our knees are touching. 

I want to take those hands and kiss them. Maybe I will, in a bit. This is all so delicate, this exploration. Obviously he wants me here, but that doesn’t mean that anything else is a given, and I want so badly for this to be exactly what he wants, when he wants it. I can wait. I love him so much that it almost doesn’t matter. I mean, I’m a sexual person, that’s for sure. There are days when I’m just gagging to push my cock into a tight hole and fuck into ecstasy, times when I’d give just about anything for someone to be touching me, my very skin craving it. There’ve been long periods of drought in my life – or rather, drought has been more the rule than the exception. I’ve always be hungry for more, always felt like I was on the brink of starvation. But this is about so much more than that. This is something I’ve never had or done before, either. I focus on what he’s saying. “Even as a kid?” I ask. “I mean, me and Harry used to have to share a hotel bed the few times our family went anywhere on holiday.” 

Sherlock shakes his head against the pillow. “Not even as a child,” he says. “We didn’t really go on holiday. Mycroft was already away at school by the time I was one, and busy studying during his breaks. Then you know what happened with my sister. Obviously that was… a traumatic period. And right after that, it was my turn to leave for school. I suppose my parents just went on their own.” He inhales, stops, then goes on. “It seems like – a shameful thing to be such a novice about. I question everything. What’s supposed to go where. What’s supposed to happen when. Who does what, and when, and how.” 

I smile, feeling fondness for him spilling out all over my face. “Why don’t we let go of the entire notion of ‘supposed to’,” I suggest, nicely. “We can do whatever we want, whenever we want. I’m following your lead here.” 

“No, but – ” Sherlock fumbles for the words. “I mean in the sense of what usually happens. It must be completely old hat for you, but – I’m rather out of my depth here.”

I give in to my urge now, taking one of his hands and bringing it to my mouth, kissing the tips of his fingers. “Nothing that happens between us could ever compare with anything I’ve ever experienced before,” I say humbly. “I mean that, Sherlock. This is as brand new and ground-breaking for me as it is for you. The things we’ll do together will be firsts for both of us.” 

He smiles, a bit uncertainly, obviously not yet convinced. “But you’ve had sex. With many people.”

“I thought we were just talking about sleeping together,” I tease gently. I lace our fingers together now, to take any bite out of the comment. “And – yes, but that doesn’t mean it will be the same. Right now my heart is beating at least as hard it was the first time I ever got a girl into bed with me. And I can say with absolute certainty that nothing has ever meant as much to me as this, Sherlock. I love you. That changes everything.”

Sherlock pulls his fingers out of mine and lays the palm of his hand against my chest, gauging my heartbeat. His expression is one of frank wonder. “Good,” he says, then swiftly leans over and kisses me. “I love _you_ ,” he says after, his eyes half-closed, then puts his mouth back on mine. 

My hands go to him like magnets, pulling him close first, then right on top of me as we kiss. I’ve never experienced this, either: having someone this much bigger than me looming over me this way. There were a couple of taller women, to be sure, but those times I definitely would have made sure to take the lead, assert my own masculinity, whatever that means. I guess I can admit that I’m a bit sensitive about that sort of thing. It happens when you’re short, and then I was in the med corps on top of it, so people assume you just can’t handle combat or something. Nothing about this is setting off any of those defenses, though. I know he’s totally new to this, writhing against me out of instinct and desire rather than knowledge or prior experience, and it feels amazing. My cock’s been semi-hard since watching the news on the sofa and the feel of his against mine, much more directly than through his trousers and my jeans, is enough to get me all the way hard in seconds. I’m fucking _dying_ to see it, but I’m not about to rush him, even now. It feels big – mouth-wateringly big. This time it’s my hands stroking down his back, seeking, and _God_ his arse is fantastic!! Getting to touch it at last is nothing short of mind-blowing. I rub his back, pushing the blankets down and out of the way, and Sherlock makes some sort of vocalisation into my mouth. I slide my hands down the back of his underwear and squeeze his arse as he thrusts against me through the two layers of damp cotton. Maybe I should ask if it’s okay, but he makes that sound again and lifts his head. 

His mouth is red and looks thoroughly kissed, his hair a mess. “John – can we – take these off?” he asks, obviously meaning our underwear. 

My breath hitches. “Fuck, yes!” Oops. Too enthusiastic? Too late now. I nod, breathing through my mouth. “Yeah. Let’s do that.” 

Sherlock swallows. “I’ve been – yearning to see you, you know,” he confesses, still bent over me, his cock throbbing tangibly against mine. “For – ages.”

“Likewise,” I say, my heartbeat trebling. We separate and get out of his bed on our own sides. Before I can do anything, Sherlock comes around to where I am. His erection is plainly visible, hard as a flagstaff and straining against the material of the rather nice black underwear he’s got on. The darkness of the fabric is hiding the details, though. He comes to me and takes me by the shoulders, surveying me. 

“There’s only so much one can deduce through clothing,” he says, the corner of his lip quirking. “And believe me, I’ve tried. But to finally get to see you – ” He stops, his breath catching. 

My chest warms. “Go on, then,” I tell him, and it feels breathtakingly important, just – opening myself to him like this. “I’m all yours for the seeing.” My eyes on his, I bend a little and slip off my briefs, stepping out of them and straightening up again. My cock is obscenely hard now, pointed shamelessly up at his face, my balls swollen and heavy. I’ve always canted a little to the left, and now is no exception. Suddenly I hope he won’t be put off by that. 

Sherlock doesn’t even try to disguise the fact that he’s breathing hard, though. He takes a step back, surveying me in minute detail from head to toe. “You’re… phenomenal,” he says, his voice low and slightly unsteady. “John…”

I realise I’m sucking in my gut and that I’m a little nervous about this inspection. “Is it – what you expected?” I ask, trying not to let it show. 

His eyes come up to mine immediately. “Far, far better,” he says, and takes a step toward me again. “Can we – ”

“Wait – what about you?” I interrupt, nodding toward his crotch. “Come on, get those off you. I’m dying to see you, too.” 

Sherlock swallows visibly, but nods. “Okay,” he says, and bends all the way over as he pulls off the black briefs, as though trying to conceal himself for as long as possible. He straightens up and his cock springs firmly upward as he does, flushed a darker shade than his pale stomach and my mouth fills with saliva on seeing it. It’s big – bigger than I even dared hope, and it’s bloody gorgeous, and as perfectly-shaped as the rest of him – straight as a ruler, the head fully exposed, the dip of his slit almost demure, like a dimple that I immediately want to put my tongue on. It’s just the right girth, too: long and thick enough to be porn-worthy, without being freakishly (or intimidatingly) large. I’m plenty secure in my own cock, which might be a centimetre or so shorter (I mean, I’m also thirteen centimetres shorter than him, and that’s not me being defensive!). I’m more than proportionally big and quite secure with how my cock looks. Mine’s also a little thicker than his – but on the whole, Sherlock’s looks would intimidate anyone. He genuinely looks like a god, carved out of marble or something, but alive with blood and breath and shivering skin, and I’m engulfed with both desire for him and more emotion than I know what to do with. 

I think I say his name, because the next thing I know he’s in my arms again and we’re kissing and it’s more passionate than it’s been yet so far. We press ourselves to each other, hands stroking whatever they can touch, and then we’re scrambling back onto the bed together, blankets getting shoved every which way. I pull him down onto me again and I can feel his cock, wet against mine, and I can’t stop touching his arse and pushing up against him. We’re kissing wetly, noisily, and we’re both moaning. The friction feels so good, but it’s also a little bit dry. 

“Sher – have you – got lube somewhere?” I ask between kisses, and he makes an affirmative sound and leans toward the night table on my stand, fumbling in the drawer until he’s got a tube clenched in his fist. We communicate mostly in sounds, questioning and vehement affirmation, until we’ve got the tube open and jointly smear some of its contents onto ourselves, and then we’re really going: Sherlock is over me, rocking into me, our cocks pressed up against each other as he thrusts, his arse clenching and releasing under my hands. I’ve got a leg wrapped around his, anchoring him to me, thrusting up against him without holding back. My head is tipped back, not even on one of the pillows, and he’s panting against my jaw as I grip his arse like my life depends on it. The pleasure is mounting and mounting, leaking out my cock in pre-come and his is drooling onto my lower belly. I could turn us over and take the lead, but this is honestly just _fine_ – more than fine – and I want him to feel like he’s in control, especially this first time being totally naked with someone, having what really feels like sex for the first time. What happened earlier on the sofa counts, I think hazily, hearing myself moaning out loud, into his ear, but this is different. This is more intimate. This is another line crossed. 

He’s getting frantic, so close that he can’t quite control the rhythm anymore, half-afraid that it’s too soon to come and half-afraid that he won’t get there for some reason, so I take us both in hand, holding both our cocks together to make it tighter for him, and breathe encouragements into his hair. 

“That’s it – God, yes, you’re there, Sherlock – go on, come for me, you beautiful, brilliant – oh fuck yes, yes, that’s – !” Sherlock gasps and lets loose, his come spurting hotly onto my stomach and chest and it’s so fucking hot that my body decides it can’t hold back any longer and follows suit like it’s directly wired to his, my balls twitching hard and then spattering release all over us both. I’m gasping myself, shaking through my orgasm and still coming even more.

Sherlock is trembling from head to foot and panting into my cheek, his cock still guttering out the last of his release and my hands are stroking his back and arse, one of them rather sticky, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His body has gone limp now, the occasional tremor still shuddering down his back and legs, but his arms are somehow curled around and under my head, his face down between my neck and his right bicep. 

“You okay?” I ask, when I can finally speak again, and I feel him nod. 

“This is the best I’ve ever felt in my life,” he says, his voice muffled by his own arm. 

It’s a relief to hear and makes me laugh at the same time. “Me too,” I say. I put my clean hand into his hair and thread his curls through my fingers. “God, I love you. I love you so much.” 

Sherlock raises his head with an effort and looks down into my face, and his is full of that same wonder, plus more emotion than he normally lets me see there. “Me too,” he says. “So much, John. More than I could ever tell you. This is – this is like nothing I’ve even let myself dream of.” 

His words go straight to my throat and choke me up. I blink and pull his mouth down to mine and kiss him for a long, long time after that. The rest of the world could be burning to the ground. Nothing else even matters right now. Only him. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

Waking with him is like a fantasy come true, too. I wake before him, not even startled to find him still there on top of me, spread out and heavy, his body fully relaxed in a way that I’ve never seen it before. From my vantage point, I can see down the length of his gorgeous back, muscular yet lithe, dipping sensually before rising into those glorious twin curves of his arse. My cock gives a throb of want just looking at it and I think again of how badly I would like to fuck him. But only if it’s something he wants. I would go the rest of my life never even mentioning the possibility if he’s put off by it, or wants to do it the other way once we get to that point. I’d absolutely let him fuck me if he wanted to. I touch him gently, watching my hands trail over his back and letting myself wallow in what I feel for him. I feel just so fucking happy that I can barely hold it in. I can’t think of the last time I woke up feeling this happy, and conversely that makes me a little sad. All those painful years when we wanted each other and couldn’t figure out how to get there, let ourselves have that. Have each other. 

Sherlock stirs, his breathing changing. I feel his slight start as he realises that he’s lying on top of me, his cock swelling against my thigh, and he turns his head so that he’s facing me instead of looking the other way like he was in his sleep. “Hello,” he says, his voice slightly raspy from sleep. 

A goofy smile takes over my face, but that’s fine. I don’t care. “Hello,” I say in return and reach over to smooth his messy curls back from his forehead and press my mouth to his in a long kiss. Sherlock’s hand trails up my arm and his hand cups the side of my face and back of my head, sealing our mouths all the more firmly together. He’s the first to let his lips part, deepening the kiss, so I go with it and wrap my arm around his back, pulling him in even closer. I feel like I’m drowning in it, in him, in my love for him, and it’s fucking phenomenal. It’s like Christmas, only better than any Christmas I’ve ever experienced. I think of spending an actual Christmas with him, no murders or anything, just him and me, and _this_ , and then others in the years to come, one after another. A whole future. There are still years and years ahead of us. 

That concept is almost overwhelming this early in the morning, so I turn my focus to what’s right in front of me: Sherlock. Our first morning-after. My smile grows. We’re both hard as rock and I reach down to touch him, taking him in my hand for the first time.

Sherlock sucks in his breath, a jolt shivering through his body. “Ahhh!” he gasps. “Oh – that’s – ”  


I rub him gently, feeling moisture already welling up from his slit. “This okay?” I ask. “Can I – ?” 

He bites his lip and nods, his eyes on mine at first, then squeezing shut as I stroke him, his mouth falling open, panting shallowly. It’s so enticing – I kiss his open mouth and suck as his full lower lip as I move my fist over him, then move my mouth to his throat and graze it with my teeth. His breath gusts out and I feel him swallow against my lips, his hips shifting, pushing himself into my hand. “Should I be – I should – ” he tries, but I interrupt him. 

“No – just let me,” I tell him, my voice already gone a bit breathless. I can hear the arousal in it, and he probably can, too – scratch that, he definitely can, but I say it anyway. “Just let me make you feel good.” 

Sherlock swallows again, his eyes all but rolling back in his skull as his lids close, his mouth open, breathing hard as I stroke him rhythmically, loving the slide of that delicate, sensitive skin over the hard length of him. 

I get my other arm out from under me and feel around until I find the lube, pausing only long enough to get some onto my palm, and then he’s moaning in spite of himself, obviously trying to stifle it, breathing out through his nose, his eyes crunched shut. His cock is wet, leaking steadily into my hand, and it’s so fucking hot, just knowing that he’s this turned on by me. By what I’m doing. When he starts making that desperate sound again, I go harder, jerking him like I would myself, only it’s backwards and I’m guessing pretty wildly myself about how much pressure to use, how fast to go. 

Suddenly Sherlock grabs at my forearm and his cock spasms. He lets out a single, sharp sound of need from his nose and mouth at the same time and then he’s coming all over my cock and lower abdomen, and it’s so hot that I moan, myself, my cock twitching like it’s physically reaching for him. Sherlock’s forehead is condensed, his mouth stretched wide almost in a grimace as his cock spurts again, another hot glob of it landing on my skin. “Sorry!” he gasps, his entire frame shaking. 

I could almost laugh at the idea of him _apologising_ for this, but I wouldn’t do that to him. “Not – necessary,” I pant. “Do you even know how hot that was?!” Now that he’s stopped coming, I transfer my hand to my own, aching cock, covered as it is in his come, because _not_ touching myself right now isn’t even an option at this point. 

Sherlock opens his eyes. “Was it?” he asks, but his gaze has already dropped in fascination to my hand-and-cock show. Then he frowns, just a bit, still panting. “You should – I should be doing that.” He glances up into my eyes, his breath on my lips. “John – ”

I pause, my hand stilling. “You don’t have to,” I say. “I didn’t – do that only so that you’d reciprocate or something. I can, er, take care of it if you want.”

The frown doesn’t disappear. “But I want to,” Sherlock insists, so I remove my hand. 

“Go ahead,” I say, gesturing toward it. “Be my guest! I just – didn’t want you to feel as though you had to.” 

Sherlock blinks at me and then smiles, and the smile makes my entire chest feel like it’s dissolving. “I _want_ to,” he says again, and with that, wraps his long fingers around my cock and begins to touch it.

It feels so good that a burst of profanity bursts from my mouth the instant he touches me. Sherlock gives a pleased smile, encouraged, and begins to stroke in earnest, watching me keenly the entire time. He can probably read every single tiny muscle twitch in my face and know exactly what to do to hit all my buttons. I’m on my back, Sherlock propped onto his side, rubbing his own sticky come into my skin. He holds out his hand at one point, his mouth on my left nipple, and I get it and squeeze some lube into his palm, and then it feels _really_ good. He kisses my open mouth and my neck like I did with him, though I’m breathing hard and only semi-kissing back, but he doesn’t seem to mind, watching my cock with fascinated interest as he brings me closer and closer to my climax. Sherlock’s breath is ratcheting upward with mine, and he wraps a leg possessively around mine as I pant, pressing his spent and mostly-soft cock against my thigh. 

“I used to fantasise about doing this,” he says, looking up into my eyes. “I’ve wanted to for so long, J – oh!”

My orgasm takes us both by surprise, my teeth digging hard into my lower lip as I suddenly hit the peak, my balls tightening and forcing breath out my nose as my body stripes come onto my belly and all over Sherlock’s fist. My balls twitch again, practically dancing around in their glee and pulse out another round as I groan helplessly, my eyes squeezed shut. When it’s finished, I’m spent and panting, limp against the sheets, and find Sherlock curled around me, his head on my shoulder, an arm stretched out over my stomach and chest, that same leg wound between mine. I think vaguely about something he used to quip sarcastically about oxytocin and post-coital bonds forming and wonder if he’s thinking of this in application to himself right now. God, shut up, I think, and focus my remaining energy on getting my arms around whatever part of him I can touch, and shove aside any of internal sneers at myself for this post-sex cuddling. Fuck that. We deserve this. I hold him even closer and let myself drown in it. 

*** 

It feels like we’re on honeymoon or something, or like we’re both twenty and in love for the first time. I can’t get over how giddily, dizzily happy we both are, giggling foolishly and trying just so damned hard to figure out how to let our walls down to each other. We’ve broken the silence at last, but there’s still so much to say, so much to figure out how to communicate. Or to learn how to stop keeping quiet about, maybe. I can sense that there’s still loads he hasn’t said, about what he wants, what he feels, the particulars of what he desires, all of it. 

We shower together after that glorious wake up and it’s another excuse to see him naked at last. It’s still so new. In spite of all those years of him wandering around in a sheet and whatnot, getting to see all of it at once is new, and besides, he stopped doing that after he came back from those two godawful years. Once Mary was in the picture. And his shyness is new. Before, he didn’t care, and the difference is pretty remarkable. Now, he glances at me through his eyelashes, not quite able to hide the slight anxiety that I’ll suddenly find him unattractive or disappointing in some way (fat chance!). And the way he does it, goes from ninety percent naked to giving me one of those glances that get my blood boiling, to dropping the sheet all the way, looking at me over his shoulder all the while – God, it’s incredible! He tells me that he’s never showered with anyone before, which was already quite clear to me, but I reassure him that it’s fine and we wash each other, our hands touching and exploring with something not far off actual reverence. I discover the scars on his back from when he was beaten, but he shrugs it off as though it’s nothing and says he’d rather leave it in the past, so I drop it for the time being. We’re both hard, our skin reddened from the hot water, but somehow we manage to wait until after we’ve washed each other’s hair before giving in. 

Sherlock blows water off his lips and says, “So can I touch you now?” after he’s finished rinsing his own conditioner out of my hair. 

I grin. “Didn’t realise you were waiting to,” I say, already moving closer to him. I turn my face up in unabashed invitation and Sherlock kisses me in lieu of responding verbally, his hands gripping my shoulders. 

We kiss and kiss and it echoes off the tiles, amplified, and he reaches down for my cock. “I think – you’ve – quadrupled my – libido,” Sherlock says between kisses, then groans as my hand closes around his gorgeous erection. “Oh – _John_ – !”

I hum in response, dreamy and turned on as hell at the same time. “Sherlock,” I murmur in response, just for the pleasure of saying his name. My voice is breathy. I kiss him again, sucking at his mouth hard. He drops his mouth to my neck, breathing hard and I let my head fall back to give him space, my eyes closed, still rubbing him. “Have you ever touched yourself and thought about me?” 

His voice is deep and makes a sound to the affirmative into my throat. “Frequently right here,” he says, not shy about admitting it. “Did you?” 

“Every fucking day,” I gasp out; he’s just found a particularly sensitive place on my neck to suck. “Sometime, I’d love to know what you fantasised about.”

This gives him slight pause, but then he says, “All right. Sometime.” 

I accept this and don’t push it. “That feels amazing,” I groan instead, pushing into his fist. 

Sherlock agrees, breathless. “I never thought I could – do this so many times in one – short period,” he gets out with difficulty. 

My laugh comes out randier than anything. “Live and learn,” I drawl, then seal my mouth to his and focus on thrusting into his fist while rubbing and squeezing his cock to the very best of my abilities, and from there on in we can’t talk anymore, our breathing and moaning equally amplified. Sherlock comes first, but only by about thirty seconds, his breath choking as he spasms in my arms and then comes all over my hip bone. I gasp and back him into the wall, gripping his hand and fucking it hard, my breath suspending until it bursts out of my throat, my cock filling his palm with hot gushes of release. 

After that, we’re both a little sheepish but still very happy, washing our mess off each other with gentler hands and kissing until the water starts to grow cool. We step out and dry off, then separate briefly to dress (I have to go upstairs for this), then reunite in the kitchen to kiss as though we haven’t seen each other in days, then finally pull ourselves together long enough to figure out breakfast. I haven’t fallen this hard ever before, I think, still grinning stupidly at him as we attempt to put together the makings of waffles and scrambled eggs and fruit the best we can, constantly interrupting ourselves to kiss some more, and it’s so fucking fantastic I can’t get over it. I tell him this, about having never fallen so hard before, and Sherlock blinks and smiles happily, not even trying to contain it. 

“Me neither, not that I’ve anything to compare it to,” he says. He pauses. “Do you really mean that? Never?” 

“Never,” I vow, my arms around his waist, a package of Havarti in my hands. I lean up and kiss him again, letting it spin out for several long, lovely minutes. Sherlock wraps his arms around my shoulders and holds me tightly, also clutching a wooden spoon. 

After a little, we break apart. “Eggs,” Sherlock says, as though reminding me. 

I nod, blinking and focusing. “Right. Yeah. Eggs.” 

Sherlock smiles and reluctantly lets go of me, going back to the bowl where he’s started a batch of waffle batter, the iron plugged in and warming already. “So how do we just – go about life normally?” he asks. “How do we leave the flat and go out into the world without – projecting this everywhere?” 

I shrug, breaking eggs into a bowl. “Who says we have to hide it? We didn’t yesterday.”

Sherlock pauses and looks over at me. “I don’t mean hide it,” he says after a moment of thought. “I just mean… how do we concentrate on anything else and just – behave normally?” 

I smirk at him. “Since when have we ever concerned ourselves with behaving normally?” 

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Yes, but you know what I mean.” He measures out baking powder and stirs it into his batter, then reaches for the bag of sugar. “I don’t even know if I could handle a crime scene right now. You’ve rather taken over my brain.” 

“Have I? I’m enormously pleased by that.” I grin and go over to him, hugging him from behind, and Sherlock gives me another of those coquettish looks over his shoulder. 

“If you’re _not_ trying to distract me from this, you’re going about it entirely the wrong way, I regret to inform you,” he says. “Particularly as that position is… somewhat suggestive.” 

My face floods with heat and my mouth with saliva. “I see,” I manage, and relinquish my grip on him. I try a cough as my brain scrambles to put some words together to respond to this. “Is – er – is that – I mean, it doesn’t have to be, but I just – do you – do you think that’s something you’d, er, be – ” God, I’m hopeless at this! 

Sherlock gives me an amused look. “I haven’t seen you this tongue-tied in awhile. It’s rather endearing. What are you trying to ask, precisely?” 

My face is still hot. I beat the eggs in the bowl with a whisk and concentrate on not slopping the mixture over the sides. “I specifically haven’t asked about this because I don’t want to put any pressure on – anything,” I say carefully, not looking at Sherlock. “On you, or on – this, in general. But from what you just said – I just wondered if maybe that means you’d be, er, interested in – the thing you thought it was suggestive of.” 

The crinkle at the bridge of his nose has appeared, I see as I chance a look at him after this garbled paragraph as he tried to follow what I’m saying. Then his brow clears as understanding dawns. “Oh,” he says. He swallows visibly, then adds vanilla to his batter with an air of studious concentration and clears his throat. “When it comes to you, there isn’t much that I’m not interested in, or willing to try. That is… I would do anything with, or for you. Are you ready to start on the eggs? If so, I’ll get the waffles going.” 

Sherlock’s obviously trying to change the subject, but what he just said is too big for me to ignore. I go to him again, my hands moving automatically to his hips, turning him gently away from the counter, and I press my cheek into his, slipping my arms around his waist. “Sherlock,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. “That was… a huge thing to say. For the record, I feel exactly the same way. When it comes to you… there aren’t going to be any barriers, okay? Whatever you want, you can have. I’m all yours. If or when you want it, it’s yours.” 

Sherlock puts his arms around me again in turn. “When,” he corrects, into my hair. 

“When, then,” I agree. I move minutely and look up into his eyes. “I love you,” I say, meaning it with every fibre of my being. 

Sherlock nods and swallows again. “I love you, too,” he says quietly, and drops his head to put his mouth to mine again. It’s like they’re magnetically attracted to each other. That, or we’re both just finding it too hard to not be kissing pretty much all of the time right now. 

We’re so absorbed in it, kissing so deeply that neither of us hears Mrs Hudson come up. “Has someone left an element – oh!!” 

Startled, we break apart, both of us looking as guilty as kids caught in the act of something naughty. “Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says, looking stunned, one hand going to his lips as though to hide the evidence of the kiss. “Where did you come from?” 

She’s still gaping back and forth between us. “Good heavens!” she exclaims. “John, wh – _Sherlock_ – well! So – when did this start, then?” 

I’m beet-red in the face, I’m pretty sure, but I clear my throat. “A couple of days ago,” I say. “It’s – new.” 

“Quite new,” Sherlock adds. He looks slightly defensive and I cringe inwardly, thinking that this was hardly the ideal way to first introduce our brand-new relationship to the world. Even if it’s only Mrs Hudson. We might have kissed in public once or twice, but it’s very different being caught in the act by someone who actually knows us. Sherlock gestures at the stove. “We were just – making breakfast.”

Mrs Hudson puts her hands to her mouth, a delighted smile coming across her face. “Oh, that’s just – _lovely_!” she chirps. “I’ve been waiting for this day since the day you moved in, young man!” she says to me. Somehow she manages to make this an admonishment. “You’ve certainly kept him waiting,” she adds, and now it really is one. 

I know I deserve it, though. “I know,” I admit. “I’m sorry, Mrs H. We were, er, pretty bad at getting this figured out. But we’re sorted now, I promise.” 

“I must say, it certainly looked that way,” Mrs Hudson says, with a sly smile at Sherlock. “Well! I’m just over the moon, if you want to know! I thought this day would never come!” She points at the waffle iron. “Don’t let that get too hot, dear,” she tells Sherlock, and turns as if to go. 

“Wh – wait,” Sherlock calls, and she stops. “Where are you going? What did you come up here for?” 

Mrs Hudson waves her hand at him dismissively. “I just came up because I thought someone had left the range on. And I don’t want to get in the way. You two will want to be alone, I’m sure. I’ll see you both later, dears. Bye-bye, now!” 

She’s already on the stairs. I turn to Sherlock, a sheepish look on my face, but privately a little worried at how he’ll react to all this. Being exposed like that. “Well,” I say, _sotto voce_. “That was – interesting.” 

Sherlock chuckles, to my relief. “I’ve never seen her so astonished,” he says, and goes to the waffle iron to turn the heat down a little. “It’s probably the best way for her to find out, really. It would have been hard to explain it in words.” 

I go back to my bowl of egg. “True,” I concede, and take the Havarti and cut several slices and cube them, then tip the egg into a pan and move it gently with a spatula, the way Sherlock taught me years ago. I add the cheese and a handful of herbs to season it, then a dollop of crème fraiche at the end. Sherlock makes several waffles and slices strawberries at the same time. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and try once again to believe my incredible luck. Unless one of us fucks this up rather spectacularly – which isn’t out of the question, but I’d prefer not to think about that – this is just how life is going to be from now on in. It’s frankly breathtaking. 

We eat with our feet touching unapologetically under the table and when we’ve finished, Sherlock reaches for my hand as we sip our coffee and peruse the papers. “I still can’t believe this,” Sherlock says, turning a page, his thumb moving over mine. “It seems like the other shoe should be dropping any moment now.” 

“It won’t,” I tell him firmly, looking across the table at him. “I know what you mean – but it won’t. We’ve waited long enough for this. But it’s ours now, for good.” 

Sherlock looks at me for a long time, but doesn’t say whatever is going through that big brain of his. Finally he just says, “Good, then,” and goes back to reading the local news. 

I want to ask. But some things just need to come out in their own time, I think again. What he said while we were cooking was already huge. I’m not going to push, this once in my life. I’m quite content to let this happen in its own way, at its own speed. 

*** 

Lestrade comes up at half-past five, looking weary.

We were just watching telly (or pretending to while we snogged) and hear him in enough time to detangle ourselves, though neither of us moves any further away from the other. We’re sitting slouched into the cushions of the sofa when he steps into the doorway and makes a show of knocking at the doorframe. Sherlock looks over. “Come in,” he says, clearing his throat and casually touching the corner of his lip where it’s wet. 

I tug at the collar of my shirt to hide what feels like is definitely going to be a mark later, feeling like a teenager again and stupidly proud of having the evidence of Sherlock’s mouth on me. “Got something for us?” I ask, striving for a similar tone. 

“Matter-of-fact, I have,” Lestrade says, looking tired. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Was just about to leave when the call came in. Seems there’s been a murder and it’s a messy one. Seems the bodies were partially dissolved in some sort of acid, and it’s not pretty. I’ve called in the coroner already but he’d just got home and is alone with the kids. I could really do with your expertise especially, John.” 

“We’re on it,” I say instantly. 

Sherlock frowns at Lestrade. “Any suspects so far?” 

“No, I came straight here,” Lestrade says. He frowns back at Sherlock. “You two sure are looking cozy, there. The heating off or something?” 

I cough and refrain from pointing out that it’s early May.

Sherlock simply ignores him. “Where’s the crime scene? Text me the address.” 

“Right, yeah.” Lestrade is distracted by this misdirection and takes out his phone to forward the information to Sherlock. “You two want a lift?” 

I look at Sherlock, deferring to him. He shrugs. “Might as well, I suppose.” He gets up, glances at me, but doesn’t say anything, and I wonder what he’s thinking. Instead he just goes to his coat and shoes and I follow him, pulling on my jacket. Lestrade waits, then turns and leads the way back downstairs.

Outside on the pavement, I see that Donovan is waiting in the driver’s seat of the cruiser and I’m glad for the excuse to sit in the back with Sherlock. We slide in and Donovan pulls away, already talking to Lestrade about the case, ignoring us and rattling off information. Sherlock isn’t particular about keeping his distance from me, I notice with private pleasure, as he slides over to show me the preliminary photos Lestrade’s team have sent ahead. 

When we arrive, the crime scene is gory enough to keep my focus. As Lestrade said, the bodies (two of them) were indeed dissolved in acid, but only partway, and the effect is quite gruesome. Enough of both faces is left to show that they died in excruciating pain. The smell is nauseating and several of Lestrade’s team struggle overtly with it, more than one of them vomiting at some point. I hold my breath and examine what’s left of the bodies, while Sherlock listens to me and starts trying to determine what sort of acid it was and deducing what he can about the situation. There are marks on the woman’s skeletal fourth finger on her left hand that he says used to be a ring, but the man’s left hand, only partially stripped of its flesh, did not have a ring. An affair, then: pretty typical, when it comes to local crimes like these. 

Eventually we turn the bodies over to the medical team (minus the coroner himself) and expand our search for information into the rest of the house. The obvious suspect is the husband, of course, so we start there – though naturally, Sherlock reminds everyone that the obvious choice isn’t necessarily the correct one. However, it certainly looks that way: Donovan, in direct challenge to Sherlock’s reminder, discovers and points out that the husband works in some sort of manufacturing plant which may well use an industrial strength acid that he’d have had access to. Sherlock doesn’t budge, insisting that we don’t even know what sort of acid it is, yet. Nonetheless, he agrees to go and wait in the factory to see if the husband turns up for his night shift on the manufacturing floor. 

We take a taxi and find ourselves an office to wait in, one that overlooks the factory floor from the second storey. It must be a supervisor’s office. All is dark. By now it’s after eleven and the plant is closed from nine until midnight, with the night shift beginning then. Lestrade is somewhere across from us in another office overlooking the machines below. It’s a bit spooky in the dark, but my heart is racing, the adrenaline coursing through my body. 

The time passes slowly. When it’s twenty-five to twelve, Sherlock shifts beside me. “This is dull,” he states. 

By now, the adrenaline has settled somewhat. “True,” I admit. “Twenty-five more minutes until the shift starts. Maybe they’ll show up early. How many employees are on his shift with him?” 

“Just four others,” Sherlock says, his eyes on the wire-reinforced window in front of us. We’re sitting on hard plastic chairs and they’re uncomfortable. Sherlock shifts his weight again. “Apparently the night shift doesn’t need many workers.” 

He sighs through his nose. I glance at him in concern. “What is it?” I ask. “Is it Donovan? I know she was irritating, but it could be simpler if it _is_ the husband…”

Sherlock’s lips purse but he shakes his head. “No. It’s not that. She’s probably correct.”

“What is it, then?” I ask. I want to touch him, but I also don’t want to distract him. 

Sherlock keeps his eyes on the window. “Last night,” he says, then trails off. After a moment, he picks it up again, before I can prompt him. “It was – I mean, you know this already, but – it was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, John. It was – life-changing. I know how that must sound, but – it was rather earth-shattering, for me. I – and sleeping with you, the actual sleeping part – it was – I liked it. More than I ever thought I could, or might. Getting to wake up with you. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever experienced – that, and the rest of it – and I was just looking forward to doing all of that again tonight. Instead, it seems we’ll likely be here for most of the it.” 

My chest feels like it’s dissolving. “Sherlock,” I say, my voice dangerously filled with warmth, ridiculous words bubbling up and threatening to spill over my lips, “that’s – wow, I had no idea you were thinking about that. I’ve been trying so hard to just keep focused and not distract you!” I scoot my chair over, closer to his, and put my arms around his shoulders, press my lips to his cheek. “We’re definitely going to do all that again. We’ve got so much time, now. And yeah, I was looking forward to that, too. But we’ll do it again. As soon as the case is over.” 

Sherlock makes a non-verbal sound in return and turns his face toward mine, his lips parted, eyes on my mouth rather than my eyes. “John…” His mouth finds mine then, closing the short space between us, and a moment or two later, his arms come around my back. 

It feels like coming home. I know what a cheeseball that makes me sound, but it’s true. A couple of hours without his mouth and I’m clinging to him like a drowning man, kissing back like the lovesick idiot I feel like. Forget the case. Forget the adrenaline. I mean – but this is the best thing I’ve ever had. Ever. I love him. I love him so much, it feels like it must be leaking out of every pore. Plus, he needs it as much as I do. Needs _me_ , and I still can’t get over what a miracle that feels like. In an unwelcome flash, I remember hitting him in the hospital that time and moan into his mouth. Hopefully he won’t know that’s why, I think, taking his face in both hands and cradling it with as much gentleness as I can give and cursing myself internally again. I will never deny him _anything_. Not one fucking thing. Not _ever_. He didn’t have to forgive me. He didn’t have to let me come home. He didn’t have to still love me after all of that, and still want me enough to take his courage in both hands and finally be the one to break the silence. He is everything, _everything_ to me. 

So when he pulls back some time later and says, his bottom lip looking deliciously well-kissed and red, “We don’t necessarily have to wait until the case is over…”, I blink at him and then smile. 

“What did you have in mind?” I ask, my arms still around him. 

Sherlock’s lips press together in a gesture that’s a little too apologetic. “It’s just that there are so many things I’ve – thought of,” he says, as though trying to explain. “Things I’ve wished we could – try. If we ever became – this, I mean.” 

I stroke his beautiful face and think that it’s healed, healed from me, and touch my thumb to his lips. “You don’t have to explain,” I say gently. “I want to try everything there is with you, too. I just thought that maybe you’d want to – I don’t want to say focus. Compartmentalise, maybe? Keep this separate from the case stuff. But we can do anything you want, anywhere and any time you want it.” I study his face, searching his eyes. He’s hesitating and I can sense it. So: a light probe, then, to help him get it out. “What have you thought about?” I ask, endeavouring to keep it from sounding too thirsty, like I’m just waiting to jump him. 

That works: Sherlock swallows, his neck bobbing (Christ, that neck of his!). “So many things,” he says, his voice dropping half an octave. He leans forward to mouth at my throat, conveniently hiding his face. “I want to touch you everywhere,” he says into my skin. “See all of you again. Put my mouth on you.” 

This last is a little unspecific, but my cock leaps fairly immediate to attention, stirring and beginning to plump out. “All very possible,” I say, closing my eyes and feeling his tongue against the same mark he made earlier. “I would very much like for you to do all of those things, and to do the same to you. You’re gorgeous, you know. I’ve always thought so, but now especially – ah!” 

He’s made a sound halfway between a growl and a purr at the compliment and dug his teeth into my neck and I remember again with a flush of warmth how my compliments have always had this effect on him, whereas everyone else’s always seemed to roll off, leaving him indifferent. He transfers his mouth back to mine again and lays the flat of his palm against my hardening cock, trapped inside my jeans. I groan into his mouth and he takes it as encouragement and begins to rub. The kiss breaks off and he breathes into my jaw and says, “I want to taste you. I want – to have you in my mouth.” 

I exhale shakily and clutch at him; he’s already gone back to kissing my neck. “Here?” I manage, my cock pushing actively against my zip now. 

Sherlock nods into my neck. “Right here,” he confirms, his voice low and even breathier than mine. 

Before I can protest (as if I was going to), he slips to the floor on his knees and rubs his nose into the bulge in my jeans and I gasp. “Jesus!”

Sherlock’s chuckle is muffled but wicked, his voice wonderfully low. His hands are on my thighs, rubbing and squeezing and he mouths me through my jeans, his breath hot. It’s incredibly arousing and I spare a thought to wonder how the hell he got so good at this with apparently no prior experience. If my chair had arms, I’d be gripping them, but it doesn’t, so after a moment of grasping in agony at empty air, I settled for his head, trying not to push, just sliding my fingers into his curls and trying to hold on. Sherlock’s fingers are on my button now, dextrous as ever, and he unzips me carefully, not letting the zip catch on my cock, which is all but bursting out into his face. It’s a bit embarrassing, how turned on I am, but I also think that maybe it might be good for him to see the visceral effect he’s having on me. Sherlock looks down at the wet spot that’s formed where the head of my cock is pushing against my underwear and smiles. “You’re wet,” he pronounces, his own arousal curling into his voice like smoke. 

“ _You_ made me wet,” I counter, though my voice is shot through with breath. Sherlock registers that with a private sort of smile, then resumes mouthing me through my underwear now. It’s incredibly erotic and I groan, breath gusting out over my teeth. 

The radio sitting on the desk crackles, then Lestrade’s voice comes over it. “You two still there?” he wants to know. 

It’s an old-fashioned walkie-talkie and the quality is crap. Sherlock looks up at me with a pained look, so I lean forward just far enough to grab at it. “Yeah, we’re here,” I confirm. 

“John?” Static almost obliterates the word. “Where’s Sherlock?” 

“He’s – here,” I say. “Er – maybe you just can’t see him. It’s dark in here.” 

“I only see one outline,” Lestrade’s voice says. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock says with annoyance. He gets to his feet and leans into the window, waving largely. “Satisfied?” 

“Oh, there you are,” Lestrade returns. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock demands. 

“Just checking in,” Lestrade says. “I thought I could only see one of you. The night shift starts in just over fifteen minutes. Let’s be on our toes.” 

“Fine,” Sherlock says, and sets the radio down again. He backs away from the window, then drops to his knees again. “Sorry,” he mutters, then carefully peels my underwear off me and takes a good, long look at my cock. I wait, almost a bit nervous by this. I mean, I know I’ve got nothing to worry about in general, but one never knows. Plus it’s Sherlock: physical perfection in every way. I don’t want to either rush him or prompt him to say something nice about my junk, but then he licks his lips and says, “You’re gorgeous, too, you know.” His eyes flick up to mine. “And your – this – is… um. Fantastic.” 

Warmth floods my being, my face. “Thanks,” I say, feeling a bit foolish. “So is yours!” 

Suddenly he smiles, an impish smile full of mirth. “I always theorised that you hung a bit to the left. I’m delighted to see that I was right.”

I stare down into his eyes, unable to look away. “How the hell did you deduce _that_?” I manage to ask. 

The dimples in his cheeks deepen. “The way you’ve always walked,” he explains. “Your right stride is always a little longer than your left. At first I thought it was a remnant of your old limp, but after sufficient time had passed, I assumed it was because you were instinctively giving yourself more room on the left. And I was right!” He drops his eyes to my cock and smiles at it. “I’m going to give this a try. I’ve wanted to for so long. But I’m not going to pretend I know anything about it.” 

I put my hands into his hair again. “If you go on the way you started, you’ll be just fine,” I assure him. “I love everything you’re doing. You still sure you want to do this now? There might not be a lot of time…”

“Then I won’t waste any more of it,” Sherlock says briskly, and drops his face into my crotch, his mouth enveloping my cock in wet heat. He sucks and it’s so powerfully pleasurable that I’m gasping like a fish out of water from the start, shoving a fist into my mouth to contain the noises I’m making. 

My hips cant upward before I can prevent myself, seeking more of his glorious mouth, and Sherlock seems to understand instinctively and somehow manages to take me in even deeper, his lips firm around me, and then he thinks to use his hand, too, and it’s even better. I’m stuttering, my legs shaking as his mouth slides up and down me, his dark, curly head bobbing in my lap, his heart-shaped mouth sliding wetly over my cock. The sight of it is such a pornographic dream that it’s as much of a stimulus as his actual mouth and tongue, and I can’t even be coherent right now. Pleasure is flooding my nervous system and tingling in every particle of my body, coalescing in one bright spike in my cock, my balls practically jangling warning bells. I’m going to come and I need to tell him before I just – I gasp out, “Sher – I’m g – ahh!”

He gets it, but doesn’t pull off like I meant him to, but he sits back just a little and keeps the head of my cock in his mouth, his hand wrapped around my cock and stroking hard, and when I come my body practically lifts itself off the hard plastic chair, shooting stream after stream into his throat. I’m thrashing against the chair and his strong hands gripping my hips as I come, sparks going off behind my eyes. It’s fucking _phenomenal_ – I’m panting his name, my fingers clenched in his hair – too hard, I realise, many moments later, as the tension releases me from its hold and I slump back into the chair, breathing quickly. “God, you’re incredible!” 

Sherlock is breathing as hard as I am as he lets my cock fall from his lips, licking them and staring up at me with those mesmerising eyes of his, their pupils flooding his irises with arousal. “Was that – okay?” he gets out, speaking with obvious difficulty, and I exhale in disbelief. 

“Okay! That was incredible,” I repeat. I glance down, but his coat and the shadows in the room are hiding his state from me. He’s got to be turned on, though. There’s a smear of my come at the corner of his mouth, so I bend forward and lick it off, exhaling hard through my nose as I put my arms around his shoulders and kiss him for a long, heartfelt moment, my heart still thumping. I release his mouth and nod toward the window, which has a foot-wide ledge on it where the radio is sitting. “Go stand near the window so that Lestrade can see you.”

Sherlock gets to his feet unsteadily and I see it then: he’s sporting a full-blown tent in his nicely-tailored trousers and I know he wouldn’t want to make a mess of them. He turns to face the window and puts his hands against it. “Like this?” he asks, glancing back at me. 

I go to him and hug him to myself, from behind him. “Exactly like this,” I say, keeping my voice low. “I want to do what you just did, but I also want to make a proper job of it and right now we haven’t got time. But I also don’t want to leave you hanging, so – ” I get my hands onto his button and zip and quickly free him from the layers confining him, pulling his hips back a little to keep him hidden below the ledge where the radio is sitting. “Just like that,” I confirm, my voice low in his ear. I reach down and start stroking him with both hands, my arms around him. I’m shorter than he is; this time if Lestrade misses one of us, it will be me that he can’t see. Sherlock can tell him that I just stepped out or something. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock is shuddering in my arms, his cock rock-hard in my hands, wetness welling up from his slit already. I rub my thumb into that enticing dimple and smear his pre-come over his head, still stroking that phenomenal, long, straight cock of his with a firm, steady grip. He’s leaking enough to make my palm slick against him. It could still be better, though. I keep one hand on him and fumble hurriedly into the left pocket of my jacket for – where is it, damn it – and get the cap off the little tube as fast as I can. It’s a bit tricky one-handed, and Sherlock is literally quivering against me, breathing quickly through his teeth as I squeeze him with my right hand. Finally, there we go – I get both arms around him and smear lube onto his cock, which is throbbing in my hands, and he moans so unrestrainedly that it makes my balls ache all over again, bucking in my arms. I stroke and stroke and murmur filthy things into his ear, silently willing Lestrade not to call again and interrupt at exactly the wrong time, and it works – Sherlock’s voice winds higher and higher, his entire body growing more and more taut all the time, and then his breath chokes off and his entire frame spasms when the orgasm hits, coming so hard I can hear it splatter against the wall twice, and then there’s still more of it leaking out against my slick fingers. I keep touching him until he shivers in sensitivity. “You all right?” I murmur. I’d kiss the back of his neck but his coat collar’s in the way, and he’s too tall besides. 

He’s braced his weight against the window, and when he moves his hand it leaves a damp handprint behind, traced in condensation. He’s still breathing hard, aftershocks from the strength of his orgasm running through his, but he nods, maybe not able to speak just yet. 

“Easy now,” I soothe, as though trying to calm a wild horse. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” I pull him backward and onto my lap in one of the plastic chairs, and get an eyeful of his cock, still flushed bright and partly hard, pearly drops still welling up from the slit. The sight fills my mouth with saliva and I know I’ve got to get my mouth on him at the earliest possible opportunity. “God, you’re gorgeous,” I whisper, nudging my nose in behind his ear and stroking my lubed-up palms up under his shirt, needing to touch his bare skin. Don’t want to get lube stains on his beautiful shirt, either. 

Sherlock shudders again at the compliment and turns his head back. “John – ”

I crane my head forward over his shoulder and kiss him obsessively, as needy as he is, my hands going instinctively down to cradle his cock and balls as he softens, holding him protectively, minimising the exposure. I love him so much it hurts. When he’s grown soft enough, I tuck him back into his underwear and zip him up, then gently disentangle my tongue from his. “Come on,” I tell him. “Get your shirt tucked it. It’s got to be midnight by now.” 

Sherlock doesn’t move, slumped so far down that he’s practically slithered onto the floor. “I don’t give three fucks,” he slurs, though the k’s are still mechanically precise. (I want to chase them down his throat and eat them.) He doesn’t usually curse, either, and it’s hot. 

I grin. “Yes, you do,” I remind him. “You’ll love it when we catch him. Or the murderer, if it’s not him. You know what I mean. Besides, Lestrade is going to radio any second now. And you know there’ll be a later. We’ll finish this at some point and go back home.” 

Sherlock pulls himself up to his feet with reluctance. “And then,” he said, reaching around under his coat to get his shirt tucked in, his suit jacket straightened out. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but gives me a look so filled with fire and smirk that I want to forget everything I just said, rip both sets of our clothes off, and have him again right here. 

The radio buzzes then, a ball of static exploding over it. “Look sharp,” comes Lestrade’s voice. “We’ve got movement!” 

The adrenaline returns. We huddle down in front of the window and count four shadowy figures emerging onto the production floor. “Four,” I say, though Sherlock has doubtless already counted that far for himself. “Reckon if the husband is missing, he definitely did it?” 

“There are no definites without proof, but it’s highly likely,” Sherlock admits, squinting into the darkened space below. 

It _is_ the husband, in the end. When he doesn’t turn up for his shift, we chase him down through his iMessages, of all stupid things. He’s holed up in a hotel across the city and doesn’t try to resist when we arrest him. The powder burns on his hands are clear evidence, and Sherlock’s got him confessing within minutes. Well, I helped: we did our standard routine, wherein Sherlock makes sharply-worded observations about the obviousness of the perpetrator’s guilt, then I come in sounding reasonable and persuade him to cooperate for his own sake. It almost always works, and tonight is no exception. 

It’s not even three yet when Lestrade releases us, the guilty husband cuffed in the back of the cruiser. We get a taxi, me saying, “Sorry it was only the husband after all. Boring and predictable, I know.” 

Sherlock goes round to the far side of the cab, giving me a look that I can’t quite read over the roof of the car. We get inside, then he slides over to me, takes my hand firmly, and says, “I couldn’t possibly care less. I just want to go home.” I look at him, my mouth opening to possibly request some sort of clarification that I can’t get into actual words, and he sees it and does it for me. “With you,” he adds, his head turned toward his window, but then he looks at me and smiles one of those small, slightly self-conscious smiles, and suddenly I need to be holding him so badly it hurts. 

I scoot even closer and tighten my fingers in his hand. I’ve privately always liked hand-holding. It strikes me as being both romantic and practical, but now all I’m aware of is my need to be touching him somehow. I love that he started it, too. Sherlock responds immediately, twining his fingers into mine and it’s ridiculous but my heart is pounding just from this. This is so fucking important, the most important thing that’s ever happened to me. 

We get home and get ourselves out of the taxi and up the stairs into the flat. Sherlock undresses me from my jacket on down right there in the sitting room and I just stand there and let him, giggling feebly. “And here I thought you wanted to go to sleep with me,” I say, trying for innocence even as my hands yank his coat off and drop it on the floor. 

Sherlock just grins at me, his eyes narrowing with a predatory light in them. “I definitely recall saying that I wanted you in bed with me again,” he counters, his voice dropping an octave. “That’s not necessarily the same thing.” 

I grin back, my eyes on the buttons of his shirt as my fingers undo them as quickly as I’m able. “Take your trousers off,” I demand, and he complies immediately, then steps out of his underwear and takes me by the wrist to tug me down the corridor to his bedroom. I don’t know what we’re doing, but it doesn’t matter – I just want to be with him again, any way we possibly can. We get the bedroom door shut and tumble into the bed together, wrestling the blankets over us and slotting our bodies together any way we can, pressing and rubbing together shamelessly, breath hot between us as we kiss. I let myself get a bit too carried away and find myself on top of him, my cock hard as rock against his. On one thrust I pull back a bit too far and suddenly my cock is right there between his cheeks, his balls resting on top warmly on top of it. 

Sherlock blinks up at me, his face looking more open and vulnerable than I’ve ever seen it, and suddenly he looks younger than his age, and nervous on top of it. His tongue comes out to touch his lower lip. “Wh – what are we – doing?” he asks, his hands on my lower back. 

I need to recalculate. I swallow. “Nothing you don’t want,” I promise. I touch his face, my thumb on his lips. “I promise. What do you want? What else do you want to try?” 

Sherlock’s cock is just as hard as mine is. He lets his lower lip fall open as he inhales, then puts a hand over mine on his face. “I want – this,” he says, with difficulty. “I mean – I want you. I want to try… what this position would suggest. But – ”

He stops. I study him, feeling my face soften. “But – you’re nervous,” I try. He swallows and doesn’t deny it, his eyes sliding away to the side. “It’s okay,” I tell him, keeping my voice steady and soft. “If it’s too soon for that, there’s no rush. There’s no rush to ever do that at all. For now we – ”

“I want that,” Sherlock says suddenly, interrupting me, his eyes on mine again. “I do, John – I’ve thought about it so many times. Fantasised about it. I just – now that it’s so – immediate, I – ” He stops again, swallowing and looking agonised. 

I shift off him so that my cock isn’t there anymore, but stay close, putting my arm over his chest to cradle his face with my other hand now, my head propped up on my hand. “Then let’s talk about it,” I propose. It’s not easy for me, putting this stuff into words, but I need to, for his sake. And I want to, too. I’m done with the misunderstandings and incredibly important stuff being left unsaid. We can figure out this communication thing, damn it. 

Sherlock looks at me with something like relief and makes a noise of acquiescence, his hand coming up to caress my arm. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You must think me inconsistent, given the way I – and then to get here and to – I – ”

“No,” I hasten to say. “Not at all! That’s a big step up from what we’ve done so far. I mean – it’s only been a couple of days. And that’s a lot. And I wasn’t even meaning for – for that to happen.” I trace the sharp line of his cheekbone and jaw. “We’re both still pretty much goggling at the fact that this is even happening, at last. We don’t need to rush anything. And for the record, when it comes to that particular act, I’m every bit as inexperienced as you are, and we don’t have to do it any particular way. I mean – if you want to be the one to – be inside me, you can, you know,” I say, getting the words out with a bit of difficulty. 

Sherlock searches my face, those oceanic eyes of his scanning for any sign of insincerity. “Do you mean that?” he asks. “I always rather assumed you would prefer to be the one to – do that.” 

I lean forward and press my lips to his for a long moment, my hand still on his face. “There is nothing I would deny you, now or any other day,” I say, my eyes half-closed, my voice practically choking on the emotion flooding my throat. “Not one damned thing, Sherlock. I meant it when I told you that I’m yours now. Always. So if it’s easier to do it that way, then that’s what I want. I want you in every possible way I can have you. What you said earlier, when we were making breakfast – I mean that, too. There are no limits when it comes to me. Whatever you want, you can have.” 

I just catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s expression as it changes, and then his mouth is on mine again, needy and possessive at the same time, and I can feel his back shuddering with emotion as we kiss deeply, our arms wrapped tightly around each other, legs scrabbling to twine around each other whichever way possible. We roll over each other, the blankets getting tangled around our legs, and stop with Sherlock above me this time, our hips bucking together. We both softened a bit during the talk, but now I can feel him, hard against me, as hard as I am. 

“I want that,” Sherlock pants against my mouth. He reaches out, searching blindly for the lube and I find it under the pillow and press it into his hand as we kiss again. “I want to touch you – enter you, be completely inside you – ”

Fuck. The very thought of it makes me harder than ever. I reach down and grasp at us both, but together our cocks are a bit too thick for my hand alone. I moan and say his name and he gets it and wraps his long fingers around mine, and together we half-thrust, half-stroke ourselves off jointly. I surprise myself by coming first, the spike hitting deep in my balls and bursting out all over us both. Sherlock utters a hoarse moan at that, his eyes squeezing tightly shut as I jerk him off hard, his balls resting heavily against my twitching one, my cock still leaking against my belly, and then he stiffens and comes with a gust of breath, his cock spasming in my hand and spattering hotly onto my belly and chest. 

We lie there, panting together, my hands stroking limply over Sherlock’s back as he shudders against me, breathing into my neck. I’m just struggling to absorb it all, revelling in every single place that we’re touching and telling myself again, silently, that I’m the luckiest bastard alive. God, I love him! I decide I haven’t said it recently enough, and that he should be told over and over again until he believes it behind every one of his walls. “I love you,” I breathe, and kiss his messy curls, my fingers sliding up into them. 

Sherlock lifts his head and looks into my eyes and his face is so emotional that it shakes me, his eyes ablaze with it. “I love you,” he says, his voice rasping. 

I pull his face down to mine and we kiss and kiss and kiss, and time stops meaning anything again. He’s the only thing there is. 

*** 

We don’t mean to fall asleep, but we do. I wake up sometime later and find myself in a tangle of limbs with Sherlock, which is wonderful but I’ve also got to piss. He’s sleeping so deeply that he actually doesn’t wake as I extract myself to creep into the loo and relieve myself in the dark, not wanting the light to disturb him. I flush, wash the sticky residue off my skin, give my hands a rinse, then crawl back into bed with him, arranging his arms so that they’re around me again, and this time he does stir, his mouth smacking sleepily (which is completely endearing and takes absolutely nothing away from how devastatingly attractive I still find him. 

“John?” he asks, blinking at me in the dark of the room, though as ever, his curtains are open, streetlight flooding in to form an elongated rectangle on the floor at the foot of the bed. 

“I’m right here,” I assure him. “I was just in the loo. Go back to sleep.” 

He makes a sleepy sound of agreement and cocoons himself around me all the more, though his body is relaxed and heavy against mine. I pull him close and fall back into sleep, into him. 

*** 

I wake up alone, to my consternation, but the light in the loo is on and the water in the sink is running. I can see Sherlock’s outline through the frosted glass. He’s doing the same thing I did in the night, I think: washing himself off. I smile, thinking of last night. He’s moving quietly, obviously making an effort not to wake me. I love that. Most people wouldn’t think, from seeing him in public, how considerate Sherlock really can be when he wants to. It shouldn’t surprise me. I know by now that he would move mountains for me if he could. 

The door opens and he appears, naked and looking like a god. His eyes focus on me and his face brightens immediately. He comes back over to the bed and gets back under the blankets, sliding over to me. “You’re awake,” he says. 

I smile back at him. “Just.” I reach for him and he doesn’t deny me, letting me have his mouth. It’s so natural, somehow, like we’ve done this thousands of times before in some other lifetime or parallel reality, but it’s also still radiating its own newness and excitement. This is only the second time we’ve woken up together, the second night we’ve spent together. I think briefly of our conversation last night and in retrospect it does seem quick, that we’re already talking about penetrative sex. Then again, our hunger for each other is unquestioned. I just don’t want to do anything that will make him feel unsure of himself, or worried in any way. I know this is huge for him and he just keeps going there, into the unknown and unexplored, into this area that he knows so little about and is so unsure of himself in, for me. For me, and because he wants me as much as I want him, even if he doesn’t know exactly how to get there. But he keeps prompting it, asking for it, making the first move. (God, he’s fantastic. How was I so stupid for so long?)

My hands touch him possessively, convulsively. It’s impossible not to touch that glorious expanse of marble-pale skin, warm under my palms and seeming almost to lean into my touch. His giant, perfect hands are stroking my back and arse and even the backs of my thighs and my morning wood is coming on a treat. I reach down to touch him there and feel him inhale sharply through his nose even as we kiss. Just to be sure, I pull away, checking. “Okay?” I murmur; he’s half-hard in my hand already and getting harder by the second. 

Sherlock nods quickly. “Very okay,” he confirms. 

Relieved, I kiss him again. After, I remind myself about the communication thing. It would be easier not to discuss it all in detail, but I want him to be comfortable. “I’d like to try what you did for me last night, at the factory,” I say, very specifically so that he’ll get exactly what I mean, that I want to blow him. “Can I? Is that something you’d like to try?” 

Colour blooms in Sherlock’s cheeks and he actually bites his lower lip. I’ve only ever seen him do that during cases when he’s pretending to be someone he’s not. His face charmingly flushed, he risks a glance into my eyes. “Only if – you want to,” he says, and it’s a bit stiff, but then, so is his cock in my hand. It actually moved when I said it, what I wanted to do. He definitely wants it, but feels shy about admitting it out loud. 

I can work with that. “I really want to,” I tell him, truthfully. “I’ve wanted to for ages now. I – if you want to know, I almost slipped up, the night of my stag do. I knew I shouldn’t, but there was a moment when I nearly slipped.” 

“I remember,” Sherlock tells me, the colour fading a little. “When we were in our chairs, playing that game. I almost wondered if you would, whether I was reading the situation correctly.” 

I search his eyes, my heart squeezing in my chest. “I’m such an idiot,” I say softly. “Let me make it up to you, if it’s not too late.” 

Suddenly he smiles, one of those small, private smiles that kill me every time. “It will never be too late, John,” he tells me. “Not now.”

I have no choice but to kiss him then, so I do. I kiss his mouth for a long time, then his gorgeous throat, the long expanse of his torso, pressing the flat of my tongue into his nipples, then slip down to the cock I’ve been stroking gently all the while, feeling him grow ever more aroused. When I’m face-to-face with it, it strikes me again that his cock is fucking beautiful. Never thought I’d think that about a cock before, but it’s Sherlock: of course it’s beautiful. There’s moisture welling up almost shyly from his slit, so I touch my tongue to it at last and he shivers. I look up at him to find him watching me carefully, breathing with his lips parted a little. “I’ve never done this before, either,” I tell him honestly. “But what you did last night – it felt so incredible, Sherlock. I want to try to make you feel what you made me feel.” 

Sherlock gives me an uncertain almost-smile. “Okay,” he says, but the flush has returned to his cheeks and spread down into his chest. He’s definitely very aroused. 

I hold his cock with one hand and take the head into my mouth. The skin is velvety smooth and very hot, and Sherlock’s breath draws in sharply. I rub my tongue against the underside, feeling the ridges and veins and tasting the salt of him, swallowing it down. My quick check shows that he’s closed his eyes, but he feels mine on him and opens them again self-consciously, our eyes connecting for an intense moment. I smile at him through my eyes, my lips stretched around him, and start in earnest. It’s honestly easier than I ever imagined. I mean, I know what I like, and it’s definitely easier than with a woman, not that I want to be making comparisons here. All I know is that whatever I kept telling myself about not being interested in sucking cocks, or at the very least, Sherlock’s cock, was complete and utter horseshit. I fucking love this, love the way he’s moving, his voice low in his throat. I suck and suck and plunge my mouth down over him until he’s gasping and writhing against the sheets, his legs jerking. I hum into his skin in encouragement and keep jerking my hand over him, holding the head of him inside my mouth and he comes hard, his arse rising from the bedsheets, an anguished-sounding cry escaping him as he floods my mouth with his release. I keep stroking him and sucking it out of him and there’s another spurt, then another. I swallow it all and manage not to choke, and meanwhile my cock is boring holes in his mattress, I’m so hard. 

When he sinks back onto the sheets, panting and weak, I crawl up over him and drape myself on him, stroking his hot face. His hands come up to hold me and his face is gleaming with sweat. “You are – incredible,” he gets out, his chest still heaving. 

I smile down at him. “So are you.”

“John – ” Sherlock reaches for me and pulls my face down to his, possibly hiding himself, his aftermath, in it, and that’s fine. We keep kissing as he comes down, until he’s recovered enough to reach for my cock again, and I know he doesn’t miss the shudder that runs through me. He moves his mouth to my neck and bites at the sensitive skin there, knowing from my hissed-in breath how much I like it, his big hand splayed over my rib cage at the same time. He props himself up and studies me next, as intently as he would with a specimen under his microscope. His eyes probe over my skin and he follows with his nose and lips and hands, exploring and tasting and acquainting himself deeply with every part of me. 

It’s incredibly arousing and I tell him this as he inhales at the crease of my thigh and balls. 

Sherlock looks up at me, his eyes filled with that same light of interest he normally reserves for cases. “It’s not taking too long?” he asks, the faintest note of worry underscoring his words. “I know you’re – ” In lieu of describing the state of my erection in words, he simply strokes it, still watching me, waiting for confirmation. 

I shake my head, though my breath is shaking. “Take all the time in the world,” I say, vowing then and there to never, ever rush him or make him feel that he can’t explore safely and with my full enthusiasm behind it. 

Sherlock smiles. “It’s terribly interesting,” he says, a bit like an admission, but it’s not very specific. 

“What is?” I ask, holding my breath as he runs his nose up the length of my shaft. 

He makes one of those noises that’s suspiciously like a purr. “ _You_ are,” he says to my cock, then flicks his eyes up to mine. “I could do this forever. I won’t, though,” he adds hastily, as though fearing that I’ll change my mind about his detailed, intimate exploration of my body. 

I force my voice to come out as normally as I can make it given that he’s now licking my balls. “It’s – fine. Do whatever you like.” 

He might have snickered at that; I’m too aroused to be able to care. He’s dragging his tongue over my cock and through the hair of my balls, apparently not at all put off by that, his hands stroking over my thighs at the same time. He lifts his mouth after a bit. “Turn over?” he requests. 

I swallow down any disappointment over him not continuing what he was doing and turn onto my front at once. “Like this?” 

“Just onto your side,” Sherlock says, manoeuvring me with his hands. He’s still face-to-face with my cock, and looks up at me. “Do you have the – ?”

I blink for a second, then get it. “Oh – the lube?” I feel around for it, find it, and give it to him, not asking. 

He holds it in both hands, then looks at me again, his face doing that same young, trusting, vulnerable thing that gets me every time. “I know we said it’s maybe too soon for – that other thing, but… can I touch you?” 

I reach down and touch his hair. “Any time, any way you’d like,” I say firmly. Given the lube, my brain arrives at a rather particular conclusion. “Are you asking if you can put your fingers in me?” 

Sherlock swallows, then nods. “If you don’t mind,” he says quickly. “I know you would – probably rather do it the other way, but – ”

“No,” I say, cutting him off gently. “There are no rathers here. I want whatever you want. I mean that.” 

He fiddles with the tube, still hesitating. “And you’ve never – done this?” he asks. “Been touched – like this?” 

I shake my head. “You’re in undiscovered country,” I say, which he seems to like. 

He opens the tube then and squeezes some onto his fingers. They’re shaking a little and I would never point this out. Sherlock bends forward and puts his mouth back on my cock (thank _God_ ) and I sigh vocally, trying to convey my appreciation for it. Sherlock gives several long, wonderful sucks, then pulls off and says, his eyes canting up at me through those lashes of his, “I’m – I want to know every inch of you, inside and out. I want to know your body better than I know my own.” 

My heart gets stuck in my throat, but I manage a nod. “God. Yes. I want that, too, with you. So – go ahead. Do anything you want. I’m yours, you know.” 

Sherlock blinks three or four times, then smiles at me before putting his mouth back on my cock without another word. With his lube-slick fingers, he rubs my balls and the place just behind them, fingers pressing in as though he already knows how good that feels. 

I’m breathing audibly and trying to quell any nervousness about the thought of him putting his fingers in me. I’ve never done that before, not that I haven’t thought about it. And I had that toy, the prostate stimulator, but I got rid of it years ago, in one of my phases of ashamedly thinking it was too gay for a supposedly straight man to own. Plus, I mean, Sherlock is right – I did always sort of assume that I’d be the one top if we ever got to this, but then again, it’s Sherlock. He’s always turned everything on its head and I’ve gone right along with it. And now, if this is what he needs, then I can do that for him. I’ve got a hand in his hair now, stroking and gripping in turns, my cock throbbing in his mouth. It’s intensely intimate and I love it. 

His fingers are creeping further back, rubbing at my hole, and suddenly I’m hit with a wave of nerves and hope to God I’m decent back there. I mean, I’m a very clean person and all that, but one never knows, right? I must have clenched a little or something, because Sherlock pulls his mouth off my cock with a pop and looks up, his face very serious. “Is this really all right?” he asks. 

I nod quickly. “Yeah. It’s – yeah.” 

That must not have been very convincing, because he pauses. “Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes fixed on mine, their blue somewhat piercing. 

I take a deep breath. “Yes,” I say firmly. “I just – I’ve never – done this, and I suddenly wondered if, er, if everything’s – you know. Clean, back there.” 

Sherlock doesn’t react, his eyes still probing mine. “It’s fine,” he says. “But we can stop if you like.”

I shake my head. “No – if you’re okay with – no. I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m just – a bit nervous, I guess.” 

Sherlock’s expression turns somehow gentler. “That makes two of us, then,” he says. “But we don’t have to do this if you’d rather not, John.” 

“No, I want to,” I assure him. “I like that it’s new for both of us. I like that I have something to offer that no one’s ever had before. So – please. Touch me. Any way you want.”

Sherlock looks at me for a long moment, then, with his eyes still on mine, leans forward and kisses my cock as though in lieu of my mouth, his lips and tongue gentle yet still completely sensuous. “I love you,” he says, very soberly, still lipping at the head. 

I smile down at him, emotion welling out of my eyes at the sudden declaration. “I love you, too,” I tell him. 

He smiles back and goes back to sucking me. Somehow the little break seems to have made it feel even better now and I feel myself leak a large surge of pre-come into his mouth. He goes harder and faster, his head bobbing over me, and his long middle finger breaches into me then. Suddenly my entire body spasms and without a word of warning I feel my arse clamp around his finger and come like a rocket launching, shouting out and flooding his mouth, my legs jerking, hips thrusting forward into Sherlock’s throat, still coming uncontrollably. It’s so intense that I might have even blacked out for a second or two, because the next thing I know, I’m panting and panting and Sherlock’s nose is actually pressing into my lower belly, my fingers clenched in his hair. 

“God, that was amazing,” I pant, unlocking my fingers to stroke through his curls with feverish gratitude. “I’m so sorry – I didn’t know it was right there!” 

Sherlock eases himself off my cock and coughs once, removes his finger from my arse and dabs at the corner of his mouth with his thumb before moving back up to lay facing me. He actually looks rather pleased with himself. “Not a problem,” he says, and bends forward to kiss me – not my mouth; I’m still breathless, but my cheeks and neck and jaw. 

I get my arms around him and pull him in close, craving that skin-on-skin bond in the aftermath of one of the most powerful orgasms I’ve ever had. Sherlock hugs back, his arms tight around me, and a moment later, I pull his mouth back to mine and kiss him for a long time, our tongues and legs twining around each other’s in tandem. It’s so fucking brilliant, this. I’ve never had anything like this before in my life and God knows I don’t deserve to have it with him, but he’s just that amazing that he still wants me, still wants this from me, after everything that’s happened. I love him so much. I take his face in my hands and kiss him over and over again, letting some of the words slip out over my lips in between, and he absorbs it all and says some of it back and I can’t think of how I even got so damned lucky, because life just got pretty fucking fantastic. 

*** 

Later, we’re sitting at the table across from each other, eating our way through a soup Sherlock threw together while I finally tackled the washing up from the past few days. The soup is good, made of Italian sausage, potatoes, kale, and something which he’s informed me was fennel seed. We were both hungry, having stayed in bed through breakfast and lunch both after our late return last night. I’m unabashedly shovelling it into my face with one hand and holding Sherlock’s across the table with my other. 

“This is amazing,” I tell him, putting my spoon down long enough to pour a little more of the sparkling lemonade we got the other day into his glass. “I can’t believe this is kale. I usually hate kale.” 

Sherlock smirks at me. “No, you don’t. You eat it all the time without knowing it and you unfailingly like it.” 

This gives me pause. “Sneak it into stuff, do you?” 

“All the time.” 

“Sneaky bastard.” 

Sherlock grins. “I know. But I’m glad you like it. I made loads.” His fingers tighten a little. “Not to change the subject, but if I might… in bed, earlier – clearly you did like that.” 

“Clearly,” I say dryly, rubbing over his thumbnail with my thumb. 

“It was tight, though,” Sherlock comments, nodding vaguely to what I gather is meant to be my posterior. “Very tight. I don’t think I could have fit even the rest of my finger there, never mind two, or – anything else.” 

For some reason this brings a little heat to my face. “It did feel tight,” I admit. “Good, but – yeah. Obviously I haven’t had anything up there in a long time.” 

“It’s not a criticism,” Sherlock assures me. “It just made me think that perhaps getting into – that, in general, may take longer than I realised.” 

I chew the sausage and kale in my mouth and swallow it, then reach for my glass and take a long drink. “There could be ways to speed it up, if we want to,” I say slowly, thinking it over. 

A touch of colour appears in Sherlock’s cheeks now and he clears his throat delicately. “That’s what I was going to propose,” he says. “Um. What were you going to suggest?” 

I blink at him. “I didn’t have a specific plan,” I say. “It sounds like _you_ do, though.” 

The pink deepens. “There are – devices,” Sherlock says. He clears his throat again. “Toys, that is. Used for – stretching. You know. For preparatory purposes. Like Kendall Alloway’s prostate stimulator.” 

This brings heat back to my face. “Okay, so full confession,” I say. “I used to have one of those. I got rid of it years ago, but I can admit now that I really liked it. The part that went inside was fairly slender on the one I had, though.”

Sherlock studies me. “How would you say it compared to – me?” he asks. 

I grin. “You’re definitely bigger. A lot bigger. So yeah: if you want to do that, I agree. Some preparatory measures might be needed.” 

Sherlock takes his phone out of his pocket with his free hand, unlocks the screen and gives it to me. “I propose we go shopping,” he says. 

I take a look at the screen and realise he’s been planning this conversation all along. God, I’m in for it! I love it. I nod. “Yeah. Absolutely,” I say, and we grin at each other like idiots. 

*** 

Shopping is both embarrassing and fun. We’re the only customers in the shop, which is a little more scrutiny than we needed, but it also makes us both all the more prone to nudge each other while looking at the merchandise and murmur filthy things, giggling like teenagers. In the end we buy a few different things to try, though I’m frankly more interested in Sherlock himself than any silicon thing, whether we’re talking about my arse or his. After that, we wander home, stopping here or there to shop, Sherlock showing vastly more patience with the entire thing than I ever might have expected him to be capable of. We buy some new shirts (or to be precise, he buys us both some new shirts), we get some pastries at a French bakery to eat after dinner, then prowl around a bookshop for a happy forty-five minutes, eventually coming away with much more than we meant to buy. 

His mother calls that afternoon to confirm their planned drop-off time for Rosie on Friday, and to invite us to come back a little earlier than usual and stay for the afternoon. Sherlock turns the phone away from his mouth to ask if this is all right. We don’t have Rosie that often, so I appreciate her wanting to check, but I agree. It’s good for her to be with her whole family, which is what we are, now more than ever. With my parents out of the picture and Mary’s either dead or otherwise nonexistent, Sherlock’s parents are the only grandparents Rosie will ever have. We’ve talked about down the road, like when she’s older, in uni maybe, and wanting to live in the city, of having her with us full time, but Baker Street isn’t a safe place, even for another adult. We go through long stretches of not coming home to find serial killers in the sitting room and that, but other times we’ll get suspicious envelopes in the post, have people charge up the stairs to confront Sherlock over the imprisonment of their criminal relatives and whatnot. It’s not an environment I ever wanted for Rosie. As it is, the security measures we already take for our two weekends per month with her are rather ridiculous. 

Sherlock turns back to the phone, hesitates, then says, “Actually, Mummy, there’s something else I should mention.” He pauses, listening, then says, “No, no – nothing like that. In fact… I just wanted to tell you that John and I are – together, now. No, not like – yes. Like a couple. Yes.” Another pause. My eyes are on him, almost holding my breath. After a moment, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know you did, but it was never like that. Not then. But it is now.” He meets my eyes now, and smiles. “Thank you,” he says into the phone. “Yes. I’m very happy. We both are.” Another pause. “Yes, of course you can tell Dad. You know what, you might as well tell Mycroft, too. Better you than me.” Pause. “Thank you.” Another pause, then Sherlock says, “All right, then, see you Friday,” and disconnects. 

I get up and go over to him, my face practically splitting open. “Bravo,” I tell him, putting my arms around him. 

Sherlock looks a bit self-conscious. “She was annoyingly happy about it,” he says, but can’t quite keep the smile off his face. 

“That’s because we were meant to be this, and she knew it,” I say, and kiss him before he can respond. 

*** 

On Thursday afternoon, Lestrade calls and offers a homicide. Sherlock listens, asks a question or two, then solves it over the phone, which makes Lestrade say something exasperated-sounding, yet grudgingly grateful. Sherlock smirks and we celebrate by locking the flat doors – it’s the middle of the day, after all – and giving each other blow jobs in our chairs, fulfilling a mutual long-time fantasy left over from my stag do. Afterward, we decide to make breakfast for supper, though of course Sherlock insists on doing it “properly”. Properly usually means fancy, I’ve come to discover, and this time is no different. He directs and I follow his instructions, chopping vegetables and grilling them as he makes and rolls out dough. I give my vegetables (broccoli, red pepper, onion, garlic, and spinach) a good stir and look over to see what he’s doing. “What are we making?” I ask. 

“Quiche,” Sherlock says, grating cheddar into a bowl. “You love quiche.” 

I can’t work out how he knows that, so I ask. “How do you know _that_? I don’t think we’ve ever had quiche together in my recollection.”

Sherlock smiles at his block of cheese. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, the tendons of his forearms working as he grips the cheddar and grater respectively. “You mentioned it once. Some time ago. That you were on a picnic with someone – it was a date, I believe. It didn’t go well, and you said that the best part about it was the quiche you’d bought at Marks and Spencer.” He shrugs. “I remembered. You specifically singled that out.” 

My jaw falls open and I gape at him. “That was _years_ ago! I think during the first year we lived together!” 

Sherlock turns his smile on me, and it’s warm. “I remembered,” he repeats. He shrugs again. “So I thought we should make it.” 

I remember my vegetables with a jolt and stir them again, but I’m still marvelling. If I thought he could be thoughtful before, I’m going to really have to step up my game to keep up with him. “You’re amazing,” I say humbly, adding a little more butter to the pan. “Really, Sherlock. You – you just take my breath away, you know.” 

That gets me another sunny smile and Sherlock leans over to kiss me on the cheek. “That was the general idea,” he says briskly, but he can’t conceal how pleased he is. 

That night, I’m rubbing and squeezing his arse as we kiss, our cocks hard and pushing up against each other’s, and I make a questioning sound into his mouth as my hand slides closer to where his perfect, should-be-illegal cheeks divide, and he nods and makes a sound of agreement. I keep it simple for now, just finding the entrance to his body and gently rubbing as we frot together. It’s good. Just getting used to the idea of it helps, I think, for both of us. And the next morning, I’m just having a piss when Sherlock comes in, his morning erection at full billow, and he comes over to stand behind me, rubbing his face into my shoulder like a big, sleepy jungle cat, his very-interested cock fitting right into the crease of my arse. 

I huff out a laugh as he nuzzles in behind my ear (God, he’s such a cuddler! I frankly love it!). “Good morning,” I say. “Can’t wait for me to finish my piss?” 

Sherlock makes another sleepy, purring-type sound into my ear. “Your penis is phenomenal, even when you’re pissing,” he says, his hands sliding down to hold it as I go, and somehow even that’s a turn-on. Everything about him is, honestly. I was already holding it with one hand and both of his are cupping mine as he rubs and presses his cock into my crease. He’s not at all trying to push into me, but the very suggestion of it is enormously arousing and I have trouble finishing my piss because my cock is rapidly filling out with his hands on it. In the end we stand there, right at the toilet and he jerks me off and ruts against me, his right hand travelling over my naked chest and belly, then returning to join his left hand in a full-on, two-handed stroke that has me gasping and coming all over the toilet lid a few minutes later. 

Sherlock is breathing into my ear, still thrusting against me, his cock nestled right in between my cheeks. He’s starting to sound frantic, like he’s afraid he’ll never get there, so I give him some encouragement. “That’s it,” I say, my voice low. “That’s so hot – imagine you’re actually fucking me – ”

He gives a strangled gasp and comes, hot spurts of it hitting my balls and the insides of my thighs, his entire body pressed up against mine, his hands still cradling my cock, which is finally relaxing enough to allow me to finish off my piss, which makes us both giggle. “That was amazing,” Sherlock says into my neck. “Thank you for letting me do that.”

“No thanks needed,” I remind him, and turn my head over my shoulder in an open bid for him to kiss me, which he does. 

“You just looked so – enticing, standing there, naked,” Sherlock says after, as though trying to explain himself. “It wasn’t about what you were doing. I don’t have a – thing for that, per se. It was just you.” 

I turn in his arms and smile into his eyes. “It’s _all_ good,” I remind him, and it is. 

We shower together and spend the day tidying, getting the shopping, and generally preparing for Rosie’s arrival. Sherlock’s parents usually bring her in around supper time, depending on their plans, and today they’re coming around five because they’re going to see a show of some sort. Once or twice we’ve had them stay for dinner, but they more often come in the evening, feeding Rosie at home and then catching the train. They adore her and they’re great for her. Her first year of life was such a chaos of different locations and different people. I wanted this for her, to have some stability. It’s good for all of us this way: while part of me would like to have her more, I also love the life Sherlock and I have, especially now. And as I said, Baker Street is hardly ideal for an infant. 

Around three, I grit my teeth and phone Mycroft, which I never love, but he is doing a rather large thing for me. 

He picks up on the second ring. “Doctor Watson.” 

He always knows it’s me, despite my unlisted number. It occurs to me that he probably gave me a private phone line to call him on. “Hello, Mycroft,” I say, willing myself to sound pleasant. It occurs to me that he’s just become my de facto brother-in-law. Horrifying thought. “I’m just calling to confirm that everything is in place for the weekend. Your parents are arriving around five today.” 

“Yes, of course I’m aware,” Mycroft tells me, sounding both aloof and distant. “My mother informed me. The perimeter will be in place as of four. My people are on it as we speak.” 

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it. “As always, I really appreciate it.” I go to hang up (these conversations are generally very short, mercifully), but then he says my name just as I’m about to press _End_. I bring the phone back to my ear. “Yeah?” 

There’s a pause, and suddenly I have an inkling of what he’s going to say. “It would seem that congratulations are in order,” Mycroft says stiffly. “I did predict this from the start, however… you proved more resistant to the notion than I initially anticipated. That said, I am pleased that you’ve finally deemed my brother worthy of your… affections. I trust you will not abuse his.” 

My first reaction is anger, but I know I deserve that. No doubt Mycroft has seen footage of Culverton Smith’s morgue that day. I lower my face and voice both. “I’m going to try my very best not to,” I say, feeling like a worm. “I mean that, Mycroft. I – yeah. I know what you could say, and I would deserve it. But I mean that. I love him, you know.” 

“Do you.” I can practically see how high his eyebrows are. Mycroft considers this for a moment, then says, abruptly, “Good.” 

I take a breath to say something else, but then I hear a click and realise that he’s hung up. I exhale instead, and put my phone back in my pocket, feeling oddly like I’ve just been put through an interrogation. I look around for Sherlock but he’s up in my old room, where Rosie always sleeps when she’s here, putting her laundry away, I think. I did said laundry after her last visit but it was all still sitting in its basket, unfolded. Suddenly I need to be with Sherlock again, just to tell him one more time that I love him and how glad I am that he really did take me back after all of that, and how I’ll never hurt him again if I can possibly help it. 

*** 

The weekend is all rather nice. Having Rosie around means toning things down, obviously, so we keep things pretty simple in bed and curb ourselves vocally, too. On Saturday, tailed discreetly by Mycroft’s security team, we take her to the London Children’s Museum, which she’s still a bit too little to understand, but she has fun playing with some of the other kids and going down slides and such. Afterward we bring her home and Sherlock makes grilled cheese sandwiches and leftover soup from the other day (he wasn’t kidding when he said he’d made loads). I get Rosie into her high chair, meanwhile, and have a nonsensical conversation with her. She doesn’t really do words yet, but it’s fun to try. We spend the afternoon and evening at home, ignoring the secret service agents stationed outside the flat door and in the front hall, mostly taking care of Rosie and me trying to engage her a bit. That’s the thing: I love her – she’s my daughter and of course I do. She’s brilliant and beautiful and every single stage of her development is a marvel to see. But for the regular sort of day-to-day stuff, I get bored. Maybe when she’s older I’ll find this more interesting, I tell myself dubiously, trying out a sorting game with her. Eventually Sherlock takes pity on me and offers to take over while I make dinner, so we trade places. I can’t imagine taking care of an infant on my own, even part-time. It’s exhausting. I attempt to tamp down my guilt a bit and make that thing that Sherlock likes: teriyaki chicken on rice, with snow peas on the side. I don’t know why I always make it with peas. Peas just seem to go with teriyaki, I suppose. He used to make fun of it, that I always made peas with it. Now I do it on purpose just to please him. That’s all on the go, and I’m in my stride now, so I also chop some apples, put together a basic dough and make a batch of apple crisp while I’m at it, then clean the kitchen from lunch. 

“Smells delicious.” Sherlock startles me, coming up behind me and putting his arms around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Is that apple crisp in the oven?” 

“It is,” I confirm, leaning into him and putting my hands on his. 

“Yours is the best. And teriyaki chicken?” he asks hopefully. 

I nod. “With peas, of course.”

I feel his laughter in my hair. “Naturally.” 

I turn around and find his mouth with mine, winding my arms around his shoulders. “Thanks for taking Rosie,” I say after. “You’re better with her than I am.” 

He shrugs. “In short bursts, maybe. Don’t castigate yourself. Neither of us was precisely nature’s first choice of parent material. But we’ll do the best we can, and my mother will do the rest.” 

He says it lightly, but the guilt stays. “I feel like such a cad,” I say, looking at her as she babbles to herself and bashes two toy figurines together. “Why do I find it so boring, playing with her?” 

“Because it’s inherently boring,” Sherlock tells me. “Many parents feel the same way, I’m told. It’s not a reflection on your parenting skills. It might be different when she’s older, when she can talk. I’m told they get more interesting as they go.” 

I raise my eyebrows. “And where are you gleaning all of this timely wisdom from, hmm?” 

“The internet, of course,” Sherlock tells me airily. The oven timer goes off then and he nods at the stove. “You get that. I’ll get the child.” 

I snicker, kiss him again, and go to rescue the apple crisp, and somehow my minor crisis of conscience is over, at least for now. We sit down and eat together, or as together as two adults and a baby can eat together, and it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s good. 

*** 

The countryside on the way to the Holmes’ place is beautiful. They deliberately moved away from Kent, where Sherlock grew up, wanting a fresh start after the chaos Eurus wreaked on the family. Now they live in Gloucestershire, a little over an hour from London by car, longer by train. We spend the morning at home, then pack Rosie up after lunch and catch the 12:28 to Gloucester. Taking the train out to Sherlock’s parents’ place every other Sunday has become one of the main pillars of this new chapter of life, and it’s been a good one. Without ever asking awkward questions – about my wife, the specifics of mine and Sherlock’s co-habitation at any point, any of it – Sherlock’s parents simply accepted me from the start. Our arrangement over the past few months has been that they bring Rosie into the city on Fridays, and we bring her back on Sundays, staying for dinner most of the time, too. Both of Sherlock’s parents cook, usually together, with Mrs Holmes ordering Mr Holmes about. It’s rather endearing, and suddenly I can see the direct parallel to Sherlock and I. Though neither of us is all that bossy, honestly. Especially not anymore. It was funny – on a case, Sherlock would give pretty sharp directions sometimes, _Here, take this. Give me your gun. For God’s sake, John, hold him still!_ , but around the kitchen it was always somewhat diffident, _I suspect you may be letting that burn_ , or from me, _D’you maybe want to turn those?_ And now, cooking with him is a joy, honestly, like an intimate dance. It’s as much of a joy, in a more muted way, as running through the streets of London in hot pursuit of a suspect. It’s more private, too. 

Not only is the countryside on the way to Gloucestershire beautiful, but this time the trip is particularly special. This is the first time we’re doing this as a couple, presenting ourselves to his parents like this. This time, they’re not the best-friend-I-feel-too-much-for’s parents; they’re my lover’s parents, and that’s a whole different thing. And they know, and they want me there. I’ve never felt awkward around them before, but there was always so much I wondered if they were wondering about. Now it’s all out in the open. We are who we’re supposed to be at last. Spontaneously, with this is mind, I reach for Sherlock’s hand and lace my fingers into his. 

He turns his head away from the window and looks at me, smiling a little. “What’s this?” he asks mildly. 

We’ve been quiet since the train left the city, apart from the occasional exchange. Mycroft’s agents are stationed at either end of the car, out of our sight. They’ll stay on the train when we get off in Gloucester. According to Mycroft, the threat level is only high when Rosie’s with us in London. I look across at where she’s sitting in her train seat. She nearly always falls asleep on the train and this time is no exception, her head lolling to the side, one thumb plugged into her mouth. The rocking motion often has a similar effect on me, too. I smile back at Sherlock. “I’m just glad to be going to your parents’ place like – this,” I say. “As this.” I squeeze his hand to show what I mean. 

He squeezes back. “I’m feeling ridiculously proud, if you want to know,” he admits. “I can’t wait to show you off.” 

I lean into him, my chest swelling enormously at this. “I feel the same way about you in general, if you want to know. I want the entire world to know that I’ve won you.” 

He’s still smiling. “You won me ages ago, John. You just hadn’t claimed me yet.” 

God, he knows exactly how to turn my heart into mush. I reach for his face with my free hand and kiss him, just long enough that it won’t be completely inappropriate, not that either of us cares particularly about that. We hold hands on his thigh and chat for the rest of the trip, him pointing out things that I hadn’t noticed about the journey before and making plans for a weekend getaway sometime, on one of our free weekends. “It would mean three weekends in a row of no cases,” I warn him. 

Sherlock shrugs. “That’s what the other days of the week are for, then. What’s the point of being self-employed if we can’t choose to go away when we like? Besides, it’s not as though we haven’t earned it at this point.” 

“True enough,” I say, and he kisses me again, as though he can’t get enough of me, and it’s such a bloody ego boost, to know that _this_ man, this extraordinary man, who’s done so much for me already, actually wants me _this_ much. 

The afternoon and evening are lovely, in fact. Mrs Holmes hugs me for a very long time upon our arrival, and both of us pretend we’re not a little misty-eyed when it’s done. She holds me by the shoulders afterward, her eyes fixed on mine, and I notice again how much like Sherlock’s they are. “We’re just _so_ pleased, John, I can’t even tell you,” she says. 

I’m very much aware of Sherlock watching this, a somewhat self-conscious, almost shy expression on his face that I want to kiss into oblivion. I clear my throat. “Me too, frankly,” I tell her, and she laughs and doesn’t say anything tactless about how long it took me to get my head out of my arse or anything, which is immensely good of her, then goes to scoop Rosie into her arms for a rapturous reunion. 

Sherlock’s father holds out a hand to shake and holds mine for an extra long time, not saying anything, but smiling, all the lines around his eyes deepening. 

Sherlock comes over and pointedly takes my other hand. “All right, Dad, release him,” he says easily enough, but there’s a proprietorial pride about the way he takes me from his father. 

We spend the afternoon on a long walk over the country lanes and through the little village where they live, just outside of Gloucester. We’ve seen Rosie’s half-day nursery where she spends the mornings. Mrs Holmes is fantastic about keeping me up-to-date with things like what Rosie’s learning, whose birthday party she was invited to, what they had for tea there, all of that. Every other Sunday they take her to the local Sunday school, too, which they’d asked me anxiously for approval for, and I agreed. Why not, I figure. Anything that could be a healthy, wholesome influence, right? God knows she needs all the help she can get along those lines, given her parentage. I mean, Mary did a good job with her, generally, but she was also someone who killed people for money, so there’s that. And then there’s me, and I’m not making any bones about pretending to be better than I am. Sometimes I did a good job with Rosie. Sometimes I failed her spectacularly. I frankly feel much better about the Holmes taking care of her, even if I wasn’t always shit a hundred percent of the time. 

Sherlock’s parents take us to the local gardens, meanwhile, and Mr Holmes shows up his botanical knowledge as he points out and comments on the different plants and flowers. I’m surprised and a little amused by how well Sherlock can keep up to him, though their knowledge of the various plants comes from obviously very different sources and uses. Sherlock finds a fallen marguerite on the paths and gives it to Rosie, who pulls all the petals off and attempts to stick the remaining bit in her eye as Mrs Holmes pushes her in her buggy. It’s nice, all of it. It feels surprisingly comfortable and already very natural for what feels like our first official day all considering ourselves a family unit now. Rosie made that bridge, and it’s working very nicely, I think. I hold Sherlock’s hand subtly, but he doesn’t try to hide it from his parents, everyone behaving as though this is all quite usual, even though it’s still so sparklingly new that my awareness of it is spiking out of me on all sides. 

Back at the Holmes’ place, we take Rosie out into the area behind the house, which is a wood with a little brook running through it. We sail twigs in the water and Rosie gets a bit muddy. It’s a warm afternoon and we take off our shoes and socks and bathe our feet in the cold, running water, holding hands and kissing now and then as we play with Rosie. When Mr Holmes calls us to come in and get ready for dinner, we take her inside and clean her and then ourselves up. Dinner is roast chicken, done to exquisite perfection with garlic and rosemary, roasted potatoes and carrots, green beans with almonds, tangy Caesar salad, the baguette Mr Holmes chose at the bakery they showed us, and Mrs Holmes’ Victoria sponge for dessert. It’s all washed down with a very nice chardonnay that was similarly purchased in town. Sherlock and I eat a truly disgusting amount, then sprawl ourselves on the sofa in the den until it’s time to put Rosie to bed. Mrs Holmes and I do it together while Sherlock and his father take care of the washing up. 

“I’d give her a bath, but she’s already so sleepy,” Mrs Holmes says. “We’ll do it tomorrow.” 

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “Yeah, she’s tuckered out, but we gave her a pretty thorough clean-up before dinner.” 

We look down at her in her cot, where she’s already breathing slowly and deeply, and Mrs Holmes puts her hand over mine on the rail. “We do love her so much, you know,” she says softly. 

I nod. “I do know, yeah. And – if it’s not too presumptuous of me to say, it’s like you really are her grandparents now that Sherlock and I are finally together. You’re every bit her real family. You should go ahead and call her your granddaughter, if that’s something you’d like.” 

Her hand tightens and she nods. “That’s just what I was wanting to ask. We already think of her that way, you know. If Sherlock ever adopts her legally, then we truly will be her grandparents. I’m glad you’ve said it, John. I’m glad you think of us that way. And – I didn’t say before, because I didn’t want to embarrass my son, but – thank you. Thank you for loving him.” 

A lump comes into my throat and I swallow three or four times, hard, blinking and willing myself not to go to pieces. It occurs to me then that we’ve both entrusted our children to one another, albeit in very different ways. “I – yeah. I do, you know,” I say. “I really, really do. More than I can tell you.” 

She’s swallowing, too, those enormous blue eyes of hers drowning. “I’m so glad. For both of you. Now, come on. Let’s not get too maudlin, here. Let’s go down and play a game of cards or something before the two of you head off. Have you got time for that?” 

“Sure,” I say recklessly. “Why not? And – yeah, I’ll talk to Sherlock about the adoption thing. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, and then it will be official, like you said.” 

Mrs Holmes pauses for a moment, then evidently changes her mind about whatever it was she was thinking of saying. “Let’s get back to those men of ours, then,” she says, and pulls the door to Rosie’s room (a former guest room) closed behind her. 

The dishes are all but finished, Sherlock and his dad talking quietly in the kitchen. I go in to help put things away and Sherlock smiles at me. “How’s Rosie?” he asks. 

“Already asleep.” I take the wineglasses he’s left on the counter and take them to the appropriate cabinet. “I’ve said we’ll stay and play a game or something. That all right?” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says, and hands me a small crystal serving bowl. “Same cabinet,” he tells me. 

We play our game over glasses of brandy, then Mr Holmes drives us back to the station (“save you the taxi fare”, he says). When we arrive, he switches off the engine and gets out to say goodbye properly, as he puts it. He hugs us both and says, “One of these times, maybe you could just stay over. Sherlock’s old room is still free, and there’s a big bed, do for the two of you. Save you the long journey back when it’s got late. Just if you like.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to protest, with a slightly alarmed look in my direction, so I decide to cut him off. “Thanks,” I say firmly. “We’d really like that. One of these times, then.” 

Mr Holmes beams at me, and Sherlock looks a touch relieved. “Safe journey,” his father tells us, and we thank him and go hand-in-hand into the train station. 

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock says, zipping his credit card through the machine to pay for our tickets and still holding my hand. 

“Don’t be,” I say, still feeling warmed by the invitation. “Your parents have been so incredibly kind to me. I’m so glad they’re so happy about this.” 

Sherlock’s smile is frank and happy. “It’s not just because they want me to be happy, either,” he says, collecting the tickets and turning away from the machine. “They really like you. They always have. But possibly especially now.” 

We get to our platform, which only has a few other people scattered about. It’s late, after all. I put my arms around Sherlock’s waist and lean up against him. “It’s nice, you know. To have that sense of family. I haven’t had that in ages, if I ever did. The whole multiple generations thing. I’m glad that Rosie will have it, too. That’s one thing I’m doing right by her.” 

Sherlock kisses the top of my head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says gently. “You’re doing plenty right. Stop this endless negativity about yourself.” 

I think of that day in the morgue again and my arms tighten instinctively. “It’s one thing for you to have forgiven me, but it’s more difficult for me to forgive myself, you know,” I say heavily. “There’s so much there. Not just with Rosie and all but abandoning her for several months of her infancy there, and all of the different people taking care of her, but – you. All that shit I pulled with you.”

Sherlock’s hand comes up to stroke over my hair. “Stop,” he says, his voice gentler still. “I know you’re still castigating yourself over it. I understand why, but I wish you wouldn’t. We made a fresh start. No more lies. No more hurting one another. I’ve hurt you, too. You know I have. Many times. Let’s not keep a detailed record of it, all right?” 

I press my cheek into his. “I’m trying,” I say softly. “I swear I am, Sherlock. Sometimes it just – engulfs me, though, and I then I can’t believe that you still want me after all that. I _do_ believe it – but it’s still incredible to me, you know.”

“I know,” Sherlock says quietly. “I feel the same way, myself, if you want to know. We don’t have the best history in terms of some of the ways we’ve treated each other. And not talking about it for so long didn’t help. But we’re moving past it, or so I like to think.” 

I nod against his face. “No, you’re right. We are.” I pull back enough to look up into his eyes. “I love you,” I say soberly, and he smiles and strokes my hair again. 

“And I you.” He kisses me lightly, aware of the people around us, but keeps one arm around my shoulders, one of mine around his waist as we wait for the train. 

It pulls in on time, miraculously, and we fall asleep on the train in a mostly empty car. We get a taxi home, then pull each other up the stairs and crawl into bed together around half-past one, curling around each other nude under the blankets and falling into a deep, heavy sleep. 

*** 

When I wake up, I’m alone in bed, which is a slight disappointment, but I know Sherlock probably isn’t far. I listen, and hear him moving about in the loo. A moment or two later he comes out wearing a towel around his waist, switching off the light. His face registers that I’m awake right away. 

“John,” he says, coming back over to the bed. “I meant to be back before you’d woken.” 

I smile at him. “It’s fine. I wondered for a second, but I figured you hadn’t moved to Spain or something.” 

Sherlock smiles back, unhooks the towel and lets it drop to the floor, then gets back in under the blankets. “Not without you,” he promises, leaning over to kiss me. 

It doesn’t even matter that it’s first thing in the morning. Or whatever time it is. I’m never not in the mood to kiss him, and last night we were both so tired when we got in that we actually didn’t even get around to anything sexual. But now… our mouths are open to each other, tongues and lips moving slowly, sensuously together. Sherlock’s body is warm from the shower, his hair damp, and he smells like his expensive body wash and aftershave. He tastes like toothpaste and I hope my breath isn’t too offensive. “You smell delicious,” I murmur, nosing into his throat and kissing it as he lifts his chin obligingly. I deliberately don’t say anything about him showering without me. It’s fine if he wants to keep some things private, after all. Just because we’re together doesn’t mean we have to do everything together. “Should I brush my teeth? Am I – ?”

Sherlock slots his long legs possessively in between mine and shakes his head. “You’re fine. I only didn’t wake you for two reasons,” he says as I kiss his chest, dragging my tongue over his pecs and nipples, which peak against my tongue. I make a questioning sound, so he says, “You were sleeping very deeply and I didn’t want to disturb you. You didn’t even move when I got out of bed.” 

I look up at him, half on top of him now. “And the other reason?” 

Sherlock swallows, his long throat bobbing. He takes my hand and guides it around behind him, to his arse. “Feel,” he says, and I can feel his heartrate accelerate even as he says it. 

I’m not sure what I’m feeling for, but I let my fingers explore delicately, aware of his eyes on mine, his anticipation all but palpable, and then I find it: the abutment of one of the butt plugs we bought last week. My mouth fills inexplicably with saliva and I swallow, looking up to meet his eyes. “Oh, I see,” I say archly. “And? How’s it feeling so far?” 

“Not bad,” Sherlock says, and beneath me I can feel him hardening against my hip. “It’s – kind of exciting. It’s new.” 

“Not painful?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “Good.” I can feel myself getting harder, too – just the notion of him being turned on by it is a huge turn-on. I push against the base a little and envy the toy, being inside him like this. “How does that feel?” 

Sherlock squirms, but not with discomfort. “Good,” he says, a little breathlessly, his erection growing still more. “John – I want – ”

He’s reaching for me, and of course I would never deny him. “Yes,” I hear myself say, shifting back up to kiss him, letting our erections rub together. “Lube?” I ask against his lips, but he’s already ahead of me, pressing it into my hand. There’s a moment of fumbling, our hearts thumping against each other’s through our chests, and then I smear it onto us both, brace my hands on both sides of his head and look down into his eyes as I begin to thrust against him. For whatever reason (don’t ask me, sex isn’t logical), this time it feels more like fucking him than the other times have. He’s looking up at me, his lips parted enticingly, his eyes so trusting that it nearly hurts, the rosy stain of arousal spreading from his face down into his chest, and I’m so turned on it’s ridiculous. I thrust and thrust and Sherlock puts his hands on my arse and squeezes hard, his big hands covering both cheeks entirely and pulling them apart a little. I think of the plug moving and shifting inside him, stretching him in preparation to have me there sometime, inside him – I’m gasping and rocking against him and Sherlock isn’t filtering his own sounds for once, breathing hard and moaning now and then, broken utterances of need spilling out over those beautiful lips – 

“Please, John – harder – I need – ahhh! Yes, yes, like – _ohhh_ – ”

His fingers grip my arse and he arches up against me and exhales hard, then spasms against me, his cock shooting out hot bursts onto my chest, he comes so hard, and seeing him in the grips of the ecstasy of his orgasm is all I needed to push me over the edge. I feel myself lose control and give myself over to it, my entire body clenching and then seeming to rush out of my cock in wet heat. It goes on for several long, glorious moments, and then it’s over, the fire seeping out of my veins as I slump down onto Sherlock, our cocks twitching against each other’s between us. “Holy fuck,” I pant into his neck. “That was incredible!” 

Sherlock makes a sound of wordless agreement and we lie there, breathing hard, our limbs lazy and heavy. After a little, he shifts. “I want – now it’s starting to be – ”

I make myself lift my head, concerned. “You want to take it out?” I ask. 

Sherlock nods, looking a bit self-conscious. “I can – do it in the bathroom,” he says, sounding uncomfortable, and I cotton on to what the problem is. 

I stroke his wet curls and kiss his chin. It’s my turn to reassure him now. “You don’t ever need to feel – squeamish about this sort of stuff,” I tell him gently. “I’m not going to find any part of you disgusting in any way. I promise. And besides that, I’m a doctor. And it’s _you_.”

He still looks self-conscious. “Yes, but – I mean, I made sure that everything was – but still, one never…”

I run my palm down over his side and hip. “Would you let me take it out?” I request. “I’d like to. Really,” I add, when I can see him open his mouth to protest this. “Unless you’d rather do it in privacy, of course. But don’t leave this comfortable bed – or me – for my sake.” 

Sherlock hesitates, then nods. “All right, then,” he says, endeavouring very hard for it to not come out strained, yet it does a bit anyway, a little. 

I press my lips to his, drawing it out, waiting for him to open his mouth to me, and when he does, his shoulders relax. I’ve still got a hand on his hip, and now I let it slide round onto his arse, squeezing a little. He’s got to be sensitive, so I keep my fingers very gentle as I find the base of the plug and pry it carefully out. There’s a small pop as it comes out, and I lay it on the night table without looking at it, then slide two of my fingers into Sherlock to replace it, to ease the transition. He’s so hot inside and it feels completely natural to be touching him like this, and so intimate. I lift off his mouth for a moment. “This all right?” I murmur, wanting to make sure. 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. It feels – nice,” he says. “Having you there. It – eases the sense of – not loss, precisely, but – sort of.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “I know what you mean. That’s what I was thinking. I love it, you know. Touching you like this. You’re so hot inside.” 

This makes him smile, though still a bit self-consciously. “You were, too, when it was the other way.” 

“Was I?” I smile at him, settling more comfortably against him, my fingers still buried inside him, moving just a little. I love this, this new level of intimacy. “What did it feel like, doing that with the plug inside?” 

“So good,” Sherlock says honestly. “If you want to know, it’s making me rather eager to try the real thing. Though – possibly not today.” 

“No, of course not,” I assure him. “There’s no rush whatsoever.” 

Sherlock smiles again and puts both arms around me fully now. “Kiss me,” he requests, and I do. 

He tells me about his scars a little later without being asked, still curled around each other in bed, and I listen with horror, my arms tightening around him as he tells me more of the details of his time away. He tells it all with a certain detachment, but he also says that the entire thing felt somewhat unreal. “How so?” I ask, turning my head and brushing my lips against his temple. 

He takes my hand. “You weren’t there,” he says simply. “It – stopped mattering, in a sense. You gave my life meaning when I met you, you know. It’s no good without you.” 

This makes my chest feel so tight that I can barely breathe. I think of him enduring all that, at least partially for my sake, only to come back and find me proposing to the woman who would later shoot him in the heart. And then going back to her after. And everything else that followed. I could say it, and he knows that I could, but I’m equally aware that he doesn’t want me to, so I don’t. “You gave my life meaning again when we first met,” I say tightly. “Maybe more than it had ever had before. Yeah. Definitely. And – when I thought you were dead, Sherlock – it was like part of me had died, too. I know what you mean. Nothing meant anything anymore. I was just – surviving.”

Sherlock puts his lips to my face and kisses me, his arms still wound around me. “It’s better this way, isn’t it?” he asks, though it’s got to be rhetorical. “Being together?” 

I smile at him. “Incomparably better,” I say, and Sherlock kisses me again. 

*** 

A day or two go by without interruption, unless you count a few potential clients that we turn down. Sherlock solved several of their problems with a question or two and sent them on their way, whereas a few others he simply refused or redirected them to the police. I rarely question his decisions about these. I used to, in the old days, but I’ve finally learned to trust his judgement. And he, in turn, doesn’t shut me out anymore, like in those weeks after I first went back to Mary. I get it now: he was hurt that I’d left, hurt that I went back to the person who shot him, and he was worried to an obsessive extent about Moriarty, and thought he couldn’t trust me to take it seriously. And he was right, I remind myself, with another twist of my guts. I’m trying to let it go, figure out how to forgive myself, but I think it warrants the occasional painful reminder of how I was treating him, to be frank. 

I want to do something for him. Life has just got so incredibly fantastic. I hardly think that either of us could be happier. This life we have now is like a dream – just one happy day after another. But I want to give him even more of myself. Listening to him talk about what he went through while he was away the other day, my fingertips tracing the barely-tangible traces of the scars on his back as he did, made me wish that I could give him back even a fraction of that. And maybe this isn’t much, but it’s something I could do and something I already wanted to do, anyway. So I start on Monday night after he’s fallen asleep. I know I’ve got to be stealthy about this to get away without him noticing what I’m up to, because I don’t want to tell him until I’m ready to give him this part of myself entirely. I creep into the loo and quietly take the smallest of the butt plugs we bought out of its packaging. Sherlock went directly to the medium, I notice with a smirk. He does have a strong familiarity with my girth at this point, so presumably he thought he’d better start strong. It takes me a lot of fumbling, wincing, and even more lube, but once the plug has slipped into place, it’s pretty comfortable, actually. I can see what he means, too, about being a bit excited about having it there. I remember feeling that way about my old prostate toy, and suddenly I kind of wish the butt plug vibrated. We did buy a toy like that one, just for fun, but it’s a bit bigger than the one I had. I look down at myself and see that my cock is plumped out a little where it’s resting on my balls. Sherlock and I stroked each other off before we went to sleep (or before he did, that is), but I could almost go again, I think. I clean everything up and wash my lube-covered hands, then sneak back into bed. Sherlock stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, reaching for me in his sleep. I press my nude form up against his, draping my arm around his warm middle and manage to fall asleep despite the slight ache of want that’s gathered in my balls. 

The next morning I wake with a raging hard-on and we have sex the instant we’re both awake, me curled behind Sherlock and thrusting into the crease of his arse as I jerk him off, and we both come hard. That night I try the medium-sized plug after he’s stepped out of the shower we had together and sleep with it in all night, too. The third night, I don’t have a chance to escape Sherlock’s notice, so I give it a miss, but the next morning, Thursday, Sherlock notices that we’re out of milk and says he’s going to go to the shop on the corner to get some, so I shut myself in the loo and try the third size up. It’s only a tiny bit bigger than the last one, so it’s not too bad. It’s snug for sure, but I don’t mind, I think, zipping up my jeans and washing my hands. I’m back in my chair at the kitchen table with the paper by the time he gets back with the milk, as though I never moved. 

I might have mentioned it casually during breakfast or something, but all that gets interrupted when Lestrade bursts in, thunders up the stairs, and wants our help on an apparent suicide that no one seems to believe was really a suicide. Well. I can’t really say anything now, can I? Sherlock is already pulling his coat on, the light of intrigue in his eyes, so I hastily put the milk away and join him. 

The case is a pretty solid distraction: Digby Alastair Montgomery III, noted philanthropist and charity ball host, has just been found dead outside the kitchen window of Remington Manor, the family’s monstrous estate house in Wiltshire. There’s a typed suicide note which his wife Olympia says doesn’t sound anything like him. I estimate that, based on the impact of his fall, he fell from at least two storeys above, which leads us to a loo in the servants’ quarters. His cause of death likely wasn’t the fall alone, however; his mouth smells of vomit and I suspect that he was previously ill in said loo. The media are beginning to arrive, though no one will admit to having tipped them off. Sherlock grills various members of the household, including the two teenaged children (Magnus and Verity), who are home for the Easter holidays, and actually manages to be quite tactful about their father’s death. Digby was often in the news, well known for his charitable work and for standing up to politicians who tried to squelch him, so there could be all sorts of motives. 

It turns out that it’s nothing that large-scale, in the end. By two o’clock, Sherlock has unearthed paperwork that leads him directly to an embezzling housekeeper, which gives us a motive and shortly after Sherlock’s interrogation of her, the killer. Lestrade and his team are impressed by the speed at which we solved the case. The killer, Kitty Ellis, is led away in handcuffs and Sherlock manages to keep a sombre face on until our taxi comes to collect us. He gives the driver our address, then seizes me by the front of my jacket and kisses me exuberantly. “That’s got to be a record, for a murder like that!” he says jubilantly, and I grin. 

The butt plug subtly makes itself known again, as it has off and on all day so far, and my cock gives a slight tingle of interest. “For once, it wasn’t the butler,” I say, trying to ignore it. “It’s almost always the butler when it’s out at a posh place like this!” 

“It is,” Sherlock agrees. “However, if it’s neither the butler, nor a family member – particularly the wife – then the next most logical suspect would be the housekeeper, anyway: that’s the only other person who would regularly have access to household funds and such. I’m frankly surprised that the butler hadn’t caught on by now.” 

We stop talking about it then, in light of the cab driver being right there and all, and hold hands as we ride back into the city, chatting lightly about going out for dinner and so forth. When we get home, Sherlock puts the kettle on and sets up a tea tray. I go to the sink and pour myself a glass of water, turning to lean back against the counter as I sip it. “By the way,” I say casually, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

That gets Sherlock’s attention. “Oh?” he asks, his brows lifting. “Should I be concerned?”

“Not at all,” I say. I take another sip. “As it happens… I’ve been trying out our new butt plugs.” 

Sherlock doesn’t move, except to blink and swallow, his throat moving only just perceptibly. “And?” 

“And, Lestrade caught me a bit off-guard this morning, if you want to know,” I say, taking another sip. “I had just put one in when you went to get the milk. Which means that I’ve had it in all day so far. And I have to tell you, I’m feeling it a bit. Every time I move, my cock notices it again. I’m feeling nicely stretched around it, in fact – ”

I stop, because Sherlock is on his feet and moving urgently toward me. He says my name and crowds me up against the counter with his hips, and I can feel how aroused he got just in that short time that I was talking, his heart is thudding against my chest. “I need you,” he breathes, his voice low. “Right here. Right now. Can – ”

“Yes,” I interrupt him, my own heartrate doubling in speed. “Anywhere and any time you like – ”

“ _Now_ ,” Sherlock repeats, the urgency rising, and his hands are already fumbling at my zip, clumsier than he’s ever been before, yet still getting me unbuttoned and unzipped in nanoseconds. I take his face and pull his mouth to mine, already open and we kiss wetly, deeply, almost violently. We get my jeans and underwear off in record time, my cock springing up against my lower belly the instant it’s free, and after that it’s practically a wrestling match to get the rest of our clothes off. “Need you – ” Sherlock’s hands are turning me around, his long fingers already probing for the base of the plug. “Can I – ?”

“Yes!” I gasp, incredibly turned on by his very neediness. “And – there’s lube in the pocket of my jeans!” 

“You’re brilliant. You’re perfect.” Sherlock swiftly stoops to retrieve it. He pushes the small tube into my hands, his fingers actually shaking in their need. “Open it,” he requests, or orders, and I don’t even care which it is. He pulls the plug out and gives it to me. 

I drop it in the sink. “Hurry,” I groan, my cock pressing into the cupboards. 

His hand appears in front of me. “Lubricant!” 

I waste no time in getting some into his palm, way more than necessary, but I’m not exactly in full control of my motor skills at the moment. “Oh please, please,” I beg, pushing my arse out at him. “I need you in me!” 

Sherlock makes a wholly non-verbal sound and then he’s there, the head of his cock right up against my hole. He inhales sharply and pushes inside in one long, smooth push and we both gasp. We’re both completely starkers, right there in the kitchen at three in the afternoon, and he’s inside me. It’s fucking phenomenal. Sherlock stops when he’s all the way inside, both of us trembling. His hands stroke obsessively over my chest and belly and he exhales into my hair. “Are you all right?” he gets out, speaking with obvious difficulty. “I – should have gone – slower, but – ”

“No, I’m – good, yeah!” I gasp back, my hole clenching around him and trying to adjust, my sphincter spasming and trying to figure out what’s going on and how to relax, but it already feels good to have him there. “It feels like – like nothing I’ve ever felt before!” 

Sherlock exhales in my hair again. “Me too,” he says. “I’m _inside_ you!” 

I can hear the awe in his voice and it makes my heart clench. I look back over my shoulder and he takes the hint and kisses me as deeply as he can from where he is, and by the end of the kiss I can feel my body relaxing. “Okay,” I breathe. “You can – go!” 

Sherlock takes my hips in a firm grip and begins to move, slowly, experimentally. He moans and babbles out nonsensical words about how phenomenal I am in general, until we’re both just panting and moaning as he fucks me. I’ve thought it dozens of times before, that I’d let him do this if he ever wanted to, and I’ve thought that I would enjoy it if he did. But no fantasy ever could have prepared me for the real thing. I’ve never experienced this feeling of having someone else inside me and the intimacy of it is beyond – everything that’s come before. It could only have been him. 

He goes harder and harder, a steady pace set up now, and I’m gripping the edge of the counter with all my might, my cock fit to burst but my attention more on the golden sensation his cock is procuring within me. I could come from this alone, I know, but Sherlock is ever better than that. He’s thrusting and thrusting, the cupboard in front of us rattling, and he reaches around to take my cock in one hand, his fist jerking over it in time with his thrusts. I’m in fucking heaven. I can’t even talk anymore – my voice is high and breathy, sensation flooding my entire body, and then suddenly it’s too much – everything turns to gold, spiking in sensation so thick I can’t breathe anymore, and then I’m clenching around his cock and shuddering in his arms, my head thrown back, mouth open in pure ecstasy as I come, shouting, my cock spraying the cupboards copiously. 

“ _Fuck_ – John!!” Sherlock is shouting then, too, and I feel the hot wash of fluid as he comes inside me, his hips slammed up against my arse, his fingers probably leaving marks on my hips. There’s another gush, then another, hot inside my body, and then he collapses against me, one arm over my shoulders, the other under, his mouth moving weakly against my neck, below my ear. 

I’m leaning against the counter, totally spent and unable to stand unsupported, but he’s holding me up. Or maybe I’m holding him up. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m panting, my chest heaving, and so is Sherlock’s against my back. “That was fucking out of this world,” I slur. 

Sherlock makes a sound of emphatic agreement. “That it was.” 

Suddenly a thought occurs to me. “God, I hope Mrs Hudson isn’t in,” I say, and Sherlock begins to laugh. 

“We didn’t even close the door,” he points out. 

“Whoops.” I reach for my abandoned glass of water then, take a sip and offer it to Sherlock. He downs the rest, then gently eases himself out of me. I turn around and pull him into my arms, kissing him deeply, loving the heavy sag of his spent body against mine, skin-to-skin. 

We stop when the kettle starts whistling, and laughingly separate to put our clothes back on and set about making and drinking our tea. Sherlock gets out his laptop, pulls up several menus, then turns the computer to me and tells me to make a choice. I look at him surreptitiously over the top of the screen, thinking yet again how I can’t see myself ever not wanting this. By now, almost everything has been said in terms of the silence being broken, the secrets being shared. Not all of it, but nearly. 

I say the name of a restaurant, and Sherlock immediately takes out his phone and calls to ask if they’ve got a table tonight, and they do. 

“Now come to the sofa and lie down on top of me,” he says. “I’ve not had nearly enough of this just yet.” 

I grin stupidly, my heart all over my face. “Me neither,” I say, and follow him over to do exactly that. 

*** 

During dinner, I find myself thinking again of what Mrs Holmes said up in Rosie’s room, about Sherlock adopting Rosie and us all becoming an official family. Then I remember the way she paused, and suddenly wonder if she was going to point out that another, rather obvious way for us to do that would be for Sherlock and me to get married, and the notion takes my breath away. It’s only Thursday. We haven’t been together, like this, for even two full weeks yet. It’s a bit soon to be thinking about marriage, though the very concept of it’s got my heart suddenly thumping in my chest. 

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asks, breaking my reverie. 

I realise I’ve stopped with a forkful of the tavern’s delicious mac and cheese on its way to my mouth. They make it with a succulent red wine-braised beef that’s just out of this world, and yet for a minute or two, I completely stopped tasting it. I blink and clear my throat. “Just – you,” I say, finding his eyes and shrugging a little. “Us. This. All of it.” I put the forkful in my mouth at last and chew, and the flavours come back now, the creaminess of the cheese sauce, the tenderness of the pasta tubes, the tangy chewiness of the beef. 

Berners Tavern is a newer discovery for us, but we both really like it. It’s furnished in dark wood and gleaming brass trim, with tasteful lighting. It’s like upscale (okay: very upscale) pub food. Sherlock ordered the venison Wellington, but he’s stopped eating, watching me carefully. He looks a bit relieved now and reaches for his wine. “I see,” he says, sipping it. “Is that why you looked so worried?” 

I can’t tell him that the only thing I’m at all worried about is that twelve days into a relationship might be too soon to propose. I mean – I also know that I’ve promised to be more open with him, to stop having this unsaid stuff between us, but some things are different. Some things just need to be said in their own time, that’s all. I guess that’s the main difference. Having had this occur to me makes me feel as though I’ve unlocked some sort of major wisdom. I smile at him now. “I was just thinking that some things need to be said in their own time, that’s all. The difference between speaking too soon and speaking too late. About finding the balance in between.” 

“Ah.” This seems to reassure Sherlock and he picks up his knife and fork and cuts himself another bite, the pastry flaking but of course not getting anywhere on him. “And were you thinking that there’s more left to say between us that should be said?” 

“On the contrary,” I tell him gently. “I was thinking about the dangers of saying too much too soon.” 

Sherlock leans forward, still holding his knife and fork. “Would it help if I told you that there’s nothing to be afraid of? That there’s nothing you could possibly say that would… make this stop being what it is?” 

“I’m not afraid,” I say firmly. “Not anymore. I mean that. I just want to wait for the right particular moment for this one thing. Although, that reminds me, I’ve been meaning to bring this up since we were at your parents’ place. Your mother mentioned the possibility of you adopting Rosie, so that they could properly claim that she’s their grandchild. It’s not necessary at all; they don’t have to be legally related to her to be her legal guardians, of course.” 

“But she would like that. Of course she would.” Sherlock takes another bite of his food. “I have no objection whatsoever,” he tells me, stabbing a piece of roast parsnip. “I hope you didn’t think that I would.” 

“No, and I told your mother that,” I say. He sounds ever so slightly defensive and I wonder if he’s still feeling edgy about the thing he thinks I’m holding back. I want to reassure him some more. “I liked us all being together on Sunday like that,” I say. “It really felt like we were a proper family.” 

This makes him smile, which I love. “They love you,” he says. “And they love Rosie.” 

I smile back at him across the table. “I know, and I love them, too.” I reach over and squeeze his wrist, and everything is fine again. We finish eating and I suggest we split our favourite dessert, the chocolate hazelnut flaming Alaska for two, and he agrees readily. We order espresso with it, then wander back to Baker Street through Fitzrovia after, taking our time and walking off the delicious meal. Sherlock kisses me right on the front stoop as I fumble in my pocket for my keys, so I abandon that in favour of putting my arms around him and kissing him as deeply as I know how. I’m his, body and heart and soul, and he knows it – he has all of me now, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I know I want this forever. I just can’t quite say it yet. 

*** 

On Saturday afternoon, just as we’re coming back upstairs after a delicious brunch, Sherlock suddenly stops on the landing and thrusts an arm out to keep me back, all of his senses alert and quivering as he listens. Our eyes meet and I understand as clearly as though he’s said it aloud that someone is in the flat. My Sig is in the drawer of the nightstand on my side of the bed. Shit. Sherlock breaks our eye contact and continues up the stairs at a purposeful pace, not trying to muffle his steps. 

The door to the flat is already standing open. We see our intruder right away, sitting in Sherlock’s chair, waiting for us patiently. He’s a middle-aged man of medium height, balding, nondescript features, no glasses, his hands resting on the arms of Sherlock’s chair, both feet flat on the floor: open, confident body language. 

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Sherlock asks sharply. 

“Client, if you’ll have me,” the other returns, sounding a little startled by Sherlock’s demeanour. He shrugs. “I rang, but no one answered, and the door was open. Reckoned you must have just stepped out, so I sat down to wait.” 

Sherlock’s shoulders release a little, but his eyes are no less sharp. “What’s it about, then?” he asks. “Who are you?” 

“And what do you want us to investigate?” I add on. 

The man’s gaze transfers to me with a hint of something very much like a sneer in them, but he blinks and the look is gone before I can confirm the overt hostility I thought I saw there for a second. “I’ve been robbed,” he says coolly. “And you’re apparently the best for a job like that. The name’s Edger. Horace Edgar.” 

“All right, Horace,” Sherlock says, going a little closer. “What have you had stolen, and why do you think it’s something for us particularly? Why not go to Scotland Yard?”

He’s curious, then. Interesting. I tamp down my instinctive dislike for the man – I might have just imagined that sneer, I remind myself – and go sit down in my chair across from him, since Sherlock hasn’t sat in it. Sherlock pulls over one of the desk chairs and sits down next to me, and we wait for the man to speak. Suddenly I wonder if he doesn’t look a little familiar, but there’s absolutely nothing memorable about his bland face. It’s a face you could see anywhere, one that would blend into any crowd. 

“Fact is, it’s something very precious to me,” Horace says gruffly. “It’s my wife’s wedding ring. Had it twenty-six years now, and it’s been missing for three days. Just vanished from sight.” 

“Where did you last see it?” I ask, pulling out my little notebook and a pen. 

Horace gives me an odd look. “On her hand,” he says, as though I’m a moron. 

Sherlock very successfully manages not to laugh at this. “And where was her hand at the time?” he asks briskly. 

“It was here, in the city,” Horace tells us, relaxing very slightly. “We were here doing some shopping.” 

This is completely vague. “Where were you shopping?” I press, trying to keep the edge from my voice. 

“All around. Piccadilly Circus, Knightsbridge, Harrods. You know.” Horace shrugs. “Probably a dozen shops in total. You know how women are.” 

Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes,” he says. “Quite. And when did you first notice that the ring was missing?” 

“At tea,” Horace replies instantly. “Little place just off the A4204.”

I frown and do a search on my phone. “Whereabouts? I’m getting a lot of results here.” 

“Don’t remember exactly,” Horace begins, and Sherlock cuts into whatever excuse he was about to make. 

“If you can’t even provide us with detailed information about where the robbery took place, then don’t waste our time with this,” he says crisply. “Just go down to your local station and fill out a police report.” 

“Please, Mr Holmes, you’ve got to help me!” Horace says, suddenly looking anguished. “It’s got to be you!” 

Sherlock looks over at me. I shrug a little. He shifts his gaze back to the man sitting in his chair. “Why has it got to me be?”

“Don’t trust the police,” Horace says instantly. “It’s – it’s just got to be you.” 

Sherlock sighs. “All right, go from the top: you were in the city – from where, by the way? I don’t believe you’ve said.” 

“We live in the country,” Horace says, rather less than specific. “Not far. The wife likes to come in, visit the shops. Spend a little money.” 

I’m still searching for tea shops. “Was it this one?” I ask now, turning my phone to face him. “Candella’s, in Kensington?” 

His face lights up. “That’s the one!” 

Sherlock looks a bit surprised. “That’s a good bit of territory you covered in one day,” he says. “And on a Thursday, too – neither of you were working that day?” 

This gives Horace momentary pause, but then he says, “No. Day off. For both of us.” 

Sherlock throws me a look that says what he thinks of this not-terribly-believable reason, then says, “So when did you first notice that your wife’s ring was missing? And what’s her name? Why isn’t she here?” 

This time I’m almost certain that I catch a flash of anger cross Horace’s face. “She’s – at work,” he says, swallowing down whatever reaction he’s really feeling. “I told her I’d get it checked out. You’ve got to find the ring.” 

“We will, but you’ve got to give us more details,” I tell him, trying to mask my impatience. “You were at Candella’s for tea after a long day of shopping. You and – what’s your wife’s name?” 

He shouldn’t have had to be asked twice for this, and it occurs to me that he hasn’t answered several of our questions already. “K – Kathleen,” he says. “She noticed it toward the end of tea. So it’s got to have been a professional. Please, you’ve got to find it. It’s an heirloom. Goes way back in my family, probably worth a small fortune, if I’d ever got it appraised.” 

“Your family,” Sherlock repeats, gazing at him. “Aristocrats, were they?” 

Horace looks a touch defiant. “The Edgars go way back. No need to turn up your nose at that, Mr Holmes.” 

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock says mildly. He fixes Horace with his gaze and says, “It’s our custom to work with Scotland Yard, unless you would specifically rather avoid that. We charge double for private investigations.” 

This is nonsense, but I can sense that Sherlock doesn’t care for Horace much more than I do. It’s a way to dump the case into Lestrade’s lap if it stops being interesting, while the client still operates through us. It’s a way for them to protect their identity from the police, too, if they want that. Horace gives in. “I don’t want to deal with them,” he says sulkily. “If you do the communicating, you can involve them if you like.” 

“Very well,” Sherlock says. He gets to his feet and holds out a hand to shake. When Horace rises to take Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock adds, “We’ll keep you abreast of our progress.” 

This is Horace’s cue to go. He gives me an unrecognisable look, then makes for the door and the stairs. I watch him go, wondering why I still think he looks vaguely familiar. When the front door closes downstairs, I look at Sherlock. “Interesting,” I comment. 

“Is it?” Sherlock asks. “It sounds terribly dull. What I’m interested in is his underlying hostility toward both of us.” 

“You caught that, did you?” I ask. “Hmm. Did he look at all familiar to you?” 

Sherlock snorts. “Not particularly. Then again, that face could blend into any crowd.” He checks the time. “I suppose we might as well start now. What do you think? Tea at Candella’s?” 

I groan. “We just ate!” 

“Good point. Let’s research first.” Sherlock sits down and reaches for his laptop. “By which I mean that I’m going to research. You do what you like.” 

I grin at him. “In that case, I’m going to give the kitchen a quick clean, then maybe take a nap. You kept me up rather late last night.”

Sherlock snickers. “And I don’t regret a second of it. That was brilliant.” 

It really was. We’d decided to give sixty-nine a try, which took a lot of giggling and awkward attempts to position ourselves correctly, but once we got ourselves sorted, each of us wearing one of our new plugs, cocks in each other’s mouths, it had been rather breathtakingly good, in fact. The very memory of it makes my cock twitch. I made an admiring sound at Sherlock’s comment. “It was, indeed. If you need me for anything, just say the word. Whether it’s for the case, or – whatever else you might like.” 

Sherlock glances up from his laptop with a smile. “Will do. Come and kiss me before you abandon me.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, but obligingly go over to bend over him, our mouths coming together in a satisfyingly long, deep kiss, my fingers in his curls. “As though I would ever abandon you,” I say fondly. 

Sherlock reaches for me and kisses me again. “I know,” he assures me, smiling up into my eyes, and I go off and take care of the dishes feeling immensely content. 

*** 

We set out for the tea shop a little later and, while surreptitiously investigating the scene, have ourselves a rather lovely afternoon tea. We order a pot of the Royal Earl Grey and they bring us a tiered tray of finger sandwiches and plain and fruit scones with clotted cream and jam. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a tea like this, though Mrs Hudson very occasionally takes it into her head to make one and invites us down for it. 

“We should bring Mrs Hudson here sometime,” I say, helping myself to another smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich from the comfort of the burgundy velvet-covered chair I’m sitting in. 

Sherlock has been eyeing the cakes, but turns back to me and takes one of the honeyed ham and mustard slices. “She would love it, and we should,” he agrees. “John – why do you suppose I couldn’t find any trace of Horace Edgar online?” 

I shrug. “Because he’s just off the grid?” 

“ _No_ one is off the grid,” Sherlock counters. “There’s always some trace of them, somewhere.” 

He’s going somewhere with this. “Then it’s not his real name,” I say, and Sherlock’s eyes gleam. 

“Bravo, John. He’s the real case here, I think.” He takes out his phone and turns it toward me. “I took this photo of him while he was in the flat, while you were showing him this place on the map. Would you say that he’s reasonably recognisable from this?” 

I bend forward and examine the photo. “Yes, definitely. Well done.” 

“And yet,” Sherlock says, lowering his voice, “neither the manager nor the server who was working on Thursday afternoon recognises his picture. It was only two days ago. I showed them when I went up to look at the cakes.” 

I consider this. “Was that server the only one who was working that day?” 

“Yes, because the other was off sick and the manager stepped in.” Sherlock closes the photos and puts his phone down. “So why would a man lie to us about a wedding ring theft? What’s his game, John?” 

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “The only thing that’s nagging at me a bit is that, bland as his face is, I still sort of think he looks familiar. Like I’ve seen him only very recently. I can’t place him, though.” 

“Hmm.” Sherlock doesn’t dismiss this. “You’ve got a better memory for faces and names than I have. Don’t snort at that, either. That was a compliment.” 

I’m smirking, anyway. “Did you check the facial recognition sites?” I ask instead. “I know you can get into the NSY database.” 

It’s his turn to smirk. “Of course,” he says. “There was nothing on him at all. I also think he was lying about his wife’s name, for the record. That hesitation.” 

“I heard it,” I agree. “Perhaps we’re being set a trap, then.” 

Sherlock looks around the tea room a bit incredulously. “Here?” 

“Maybe not here,” I say thoughtfully. “But it has the smell of a scam, wouldn’t you say?” 

He frowns. “You may be right,” he admits. 

We finish the sandwiches and the scones and order cake and debate ordering a second pot of tea, too. 

“We’d best not,” Sherlock says. “Or else we’ll be too full to run. As it is, this cake is probably a bad idea. I can’t bring myself to regret it, though.” 

“It’s very good,” I concede, lifting another forkful of soft, spicy gingerbread to my mouth. The generous dollop of whipped cream really is the finishing touch, I think, admiring it. 

“I’ll have to watch my intake of sweets, or I’ll gain five stone and you’ll stop being attracted to me,” Sherlock says, with one of those charming slantwise glances at me through his eyelashes. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell him, smiling. “Nothing could ever change how bloody attracted to you I am. Not your age. Not your weight. Not if you get tragically disfigured in some sort of acid-related experiment. Nothing.” 

Sherlock blinks and smiles at me, a long, slow, lovely smile. “Same,” he says, and it warms me. 

When we pay, the server gives Sherlock a pen to sign the bill. He signs and hands it to her, then stands and pulls on his coat. She lingers, though, hovering nervously. “Er, sir?” she asks, and holds something out to him. “I was asked to give you this.” 

Sherlock takes the folded piece of paper but looks at the server, rather than at what it says. “By whom?” he asks keenly. 

“I – I don’t – it was left in the – in the post box,” she stutters. “It’s not – I’m – it’s nothing to do with me!” She turns and flees into the kitchen, and now Sherlock looks curiously down at the paper. 

“Interesting,” he says, and unfolds it. He reads, then hands it to me. 

I take it. It says only, _Harrods, Ladies’ Lingerie_. I feel my brows lift. “So we are being led about by the nose,” I say flatly. I give the paper back. “What do you want to do?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “If a trap is being laid for us… what better way to spring it than by walking right in? Unless you object, of course.”

I could, but he knows I won’t. I sigh and put my jacket on. “Harrods it is,” I say, and we go out to get a taxi. 

*** 

We step off the escalators on the first floor and I look around for signs to direct us to the lingerie department. Personally, I’ve never been one to buy lingerie for girlfriends (or wives) in the past; I always figured that it was over my head and that I’d be better off sticking to flowers and chocolates and that, so I’m as lost as Sherlock is. We wander blankly around the bras and knickers, both feeling a bit like we’re somewhere we’re not meant to be. A snooty-looking saleslady with cat’s eye glasses that I take it are meant to look provocative or something comes over and asks if she can help us find anything. There’s a faint hint of suspicion in her undertone and suddenly I wonder if she thinks we’re shopping for ourselves or something and is put off by the notion. 

“No thanks, we’re fine,” I say firmly, with a glance at Sherlock. 

Her eyes sketch over Sherlock, who is politely examining the price tag on a nearby red lace bra. “Shopping for your wives, then?” she inquires. 

This sets my teeth on edge. It used to bother me when people made the assumption that he and I were together; now I’m furious that she’s overtly offering us a shield of heterosexuality to hide behind. I reach pointedly for Sherlock’s hand and say, “No, we’re not.” I garnish this with a smile that isn’t really a smile, and she clears her throat and takes herself off without another word. 

Sherlock snickers. “Subtle,” he comments, but his fingers tighten in mine and he doesn’t let go. 

“Snooty bitch,” I say, my cheeks still hot with irritation. “Let her think we get up to all sorts of whatever, in this stuff.” 

“It’s expensive,” Sherlock comments. “This one’s £145. That’s a lot for so little material.” 

I snort. “Particularly when it’s not exactly going to be on for a long time,” I say dryly, and Sherlock looks back at the label with renewed interest. 

“No, I suppose not,” he says, musingly. He stoops to pluck the matching knickers off the lower rack and holds them up for inspection, to my slight embarrassment. “This one’s only £85. A real steal.” 

It’s Coco de Mer, apparently, made of something sheer and threaded in red lace in the front, which would leave little to the imagination, and in back there’s nothing whatsoever but a satin string. I clear my throat. “All right, put those down.” 

Sherlock smirks now, catching my slight discomfort. “Why?” he asks, lowering his voice both in volume and in pitch, knowing what it does to me when he talks like that. “Do you like them?” 

“I don’t have a fetish for women’s underwear, no,” I mutter. 

Sherlock feigns holding them up to himself as though to check whether they’d fit him. “Have you ever thought about me in something like this?” he asks innocently, and I nearly crush his fingers in my grip as the mental image suddenly fills my head: Sherlock’s gorgeous cock straining to fit behind the inadequate triangle of sheer material, the rosy head pressed up against it, the perfect dimple of his slit winking out early drops of his arousal to wet the lace. 

“That little scrap would barely even contain you soft,” I say under my breath. “Hard, you’d poke a hole straight through it and destroy £85 in one go.” 

Sherlock snickers and hangs the thong up again. “You’re blushing. It’s intensely endearing. We can… explore that sometime, if you want. And I’d pay for it, of course. Or we can put it on Mycroft’s credit card. Imagine his heart attack when the bill comes.” 

That does it. We dissolve into giggles, right there in the middle of the lingerie department, like schoolboys, still holding hands, me with a partial stiffie in my jeans on top of it. “For fuck’s sake,” I say, still keeping my voice down and wiping away tears. “She’s looking at us, Sherlock. Over at the desk.” 

“I don’t give three fucks,” Sherlock announces at full volume, the precision of the k so perfect that I want to suck it out of his throat right then and there, but I’m also laughing again, hardly noticing when Sherlock’s demeanour changes. “What’s this?” he asks curiously, tugging me by the hand to another rack. 

“What’s what?” I glance at Madam Snoots again, but she’s gone back to her magazine, and Sherlock is bending to look at another label. It’s a black lace-and-net number, a bra. I can’t help myself. “You prefer that one, do you? I’m afraid you’re a bit lacking in the chest area, but we could find you a smaller cup size.” 

Sherlock looks up and sideways at me, dimpling in mirth, but he shakes his head. “No, idiot.” The term is full of affection. “ _This._ The handwriting. See?” 

He plucks the small hanger from the rack and hands it to me. I let go of his hand and examine the label. It’s a Fleur du Mal bra, a hefty £160 and proclaims itself to be a triangle bra, whatever that might be. “Where?” 

“On the other side.” Sherlock waits, watching me. 

I turn the label over and frown, reading it aloud. “ _This is what she was wearing when it happened._ ” I look at Sherlock. “What? This is Horace, I assume?” 

“So I presume. When the supposed theft happened, do you think he means?” Sherlock asks curiously. 

I look at the writing again, feeling my brows furrow. “It doesn’t make any sense,” I say slowly. “He strikes me as feeling extremely bitter. Much more so than the theft of a ring, even a wedding ring would suggest. Did you find anything on his wife?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. Not one thing. There is no evidence whatsoever to suggest that a Kathleen Edgar has ever existed. I checked under nicknames and short forms, too: Kathy, Katie, Kitty – ” Suddenly he stops, and then I get it. 

“Kitty!” I say, the realisation hitting me. “Sherlock – you don’t think – Kitty Ellis, the poisoner from Remington Manor?”

“Of course. Stupid, stupid!” Sherlock says impatiently. “How did we not see it? Katherine Ellis, not Kathleen Edgar! Her husband – what was his name? He’s the under-butler. Lestrade was the one to interview him – we would have only seen him peripherally at best.” 

I think hard. “It was something a lot like Horace… Horton, I think. Yeah. Horton Ellis.” 

Sherlock shakes his head and looks at me with exasperation. “This isn’t about a theft at all, John! This is revenge! He’s blaming us for taking his wife away two days ago! They weren’t having a day off; that was the day she was arrested.” 

“Not only that, but we also put an end to their embezzling cash cow,” I add. I hold up the bra and waggle it on its hanger. “If she was wearing stuff like this, then they were spending money, and now that’s dried up _and_ Kitty’s going to prison.” 

Sherlock looks around with interest. “So where’s the trap, then?” he wonders. “Where is Horton? Why didn’t he just shoot us when we walked into the flat or something?” 

I shrug. “Maybe he thinks he’s being clever.” 

Sherlock makes a derisive sound. “Oh, please,” he says. “You’re probably right, though. They’re so funny when they try. Now: to deduce where he wants us to go. Do you expect he thinks we’ve cottoned on by now?” 

“Probably,” I say. “I mean, you’re kind of famous for your brain and all.” 

Sherlock smirks. “And soon, my ability to puncture a pair of lacy knickers with the power of a single erection,” he teases. 

“Stop that!” I hiss, starting to giggle again. “You’re making me think all the wrong things right now!” 

Sherlock smiles into my face and swoops in to kiss me. “There’s, that’s got the lady upset,” he reports after. “She’s coming over here. Let’s go!” 

I hastily shove the bra onto the nearest hook and take off after Sherlock, still a little aroused, but it’s fine. It’s fantastic. We make for what we think is the exit but end up in the food hall on the ground floor, that big quasi-Egyptian place (Mary once made me take her there for lunch, which cost a month’s salary or thereabouts) and end up dodging through throngs and throngs of Saturday tea-takers and the early supper crowd. We weave our way through, not running now, but moving quickly and looking for the door. 

Suddenly the fire alarms go off and the room is filled with chaos, panicked shoppers and diners stampeding for the exits. I wonder uneasily if Horton Ellis isn’t up to something more intricate than we suspected. 

Sherlock keeps his head. “Come on,” he says in my ear. “Not with the crowd – the kitchen doors, through there!” 

We swim upstream against the surge of people fleeing, leaving their food behind or clutching scones as they go, looking worried. Sherlock is saying something into his phone, but I can’t hear him. I sort of assume he’s talking to Lestrade. We ignore the cooks, who aren’t paying us any attention anyway, and find the door. It swings shut behind us, leaving us in a back alley of some sort, meant for deliveries, probably. 

Sherlock is looking upward, scanning, his phone back in his pocket. “Horton!” he shouts. “We know you’re there! Come out and we can talk about this, face-to-face!” 

There is no response, but I raise a finger, listening, and we hear the faint sounds of a man trying to conceal his position. 

Sherlock’s voice hardens. “We’re armed, both of us,” he says, which isn’t true. “John was a captain in the army, you know. Three tours. I wouldn’t – ”

A gunshot ricochets off the walls around us and we both duck instinctively. It’s deafening but neither of us is hit, thank God. Horton is running now, possibly chickening out. He’s on the roof, one storey above us, but evidently comes to a dead end and is forced to jump down onto some bins and keep running down the lane. 

We’re far faster than he is. I can hear sirens but don’t know whether it’s fire trucks or the police, but then I see Lestrade and Donovan emerge from the far end of the alley, guns drawn. Sherlock reaches Horton first. They struggle briefly, but Sherlock overpowers him and shoves him up against the dirty brick wall behind him, holding him in place with a forearm. I was only three paces behind him but it’s already over when I stop. “You okay?” I ask Sherlock, breathing a bit faster than usual. “That was brilliant!” 

Sherlock’s cheeks pink up a little, the way I love, but before he can say anything, Horton snarls and struggles against Sherlock’s hold. “You’re so pathetic,” he sneers. “Look at you, blushing like a schoolgirl. I saw you, the other today. The way you look at him when you think he’s not looking. Like he’s your entire universe. But he’s not like you, is he? I read about you two. He was married before, wasn’t he?”

“What does that matter?” Sherlock sounds irritated. “Hold still!”

I hurry over to him and we get Horton turned around, his face pushing up against the brick hard enough to subdue him. He begins to weep. “Kitty was my whole life,” he moans. “I wanted to kill you both for taking her from me. I wanted to do it for her. But I couldn’t.” 

“Yeah, well, you tried, didn’t you,” I say dryly, wrestling his arms behind his back and zip-tying his wrists without feeling an ounce of sympathy for him. “They say it’s the thought that counts. I guess you thought you were being clever, leaving that pathetic little trail of bread crumbs. I don’t know why you didn’t just shoot us when we got home.”

“Because he didn’t have the guts to,” Sherlock snaps, his colour still high. 

Lestrade says his name warningly, but I’m not at all worried. Sherlock’s in control. “You also missed something pretty obvious back at the house, mate,” I tell Horton coolly. “Which is that I look at him in the exact same way, because he’s my entire universe, too.” I look at Sherlock, who relaxes his grip on Horton, and I raise my voice. “He’s all yours, Greg.” 

Horton is still glaring at us. Sherlock takes a step toward me, then puts his hands on my face and kisses me fiercely, right in front of everyone. 

Peripherally, I become aware that the police are clapping and hooting. I pull away from Sherlock and grin up into his face. “Well, that’s one way to do it,” I say under my breath, my hands on his hips, and he shrugs, smiling semi-apologetically. 

“Couldn’t be helped,” he says, then takes my hand and turns outward to acknowledge the applause. “Yes, all right,” he says, trying to sound cross, but it comes off sounding remarkably indulgent. “Now you know. Congratulations to whomever won the bet.” He nods in Horton’s direction. “Do what you like with this one. He tried to shoot us but lost his nerve and ran away. He didn’t hurt us in the end.” 

“You took my wife from me,” Horton bites out. 

“Then she shouldn’t have been stealing from your employers,” Sherlock says briskly. “Come along, John. Let’s go home.” He’s still holding my hand – with even more pride than he did in front of his parents last weekend – and breezes by Lestrade with his chest practically puffed out. “I trust you can handle it from here,” he says loftily, but Lestrade just grins at us. 

“Good on you both,” he says good-naturedly, obviously not talking about Horton. “I’m glad.” 

I smile back at him. “Let’s get a pint soon,” I say, and he nods and waves us off. 

We pick our way through the masses of evacuated shoppers on the pavements and walk for a few blocks before stopping to hail a cab. “That was short, but not entirely pointless, now that I know what sort of effect sexy lingerie has on you,” Sherlock says, still looking rather pleased with himself over the entire thing. 

“I’ve honestly never had a thing for it before,” I say honestly. “I mean – it’s sexy and that, but – it’s just you, you know. You could be wearing a paper bag and I’d think you were the hottest thing on the planet.” 

Sherlock looks vastly pleased by that, too, smiling and kissing me even as the cab pulls up next to the kerb. “Get in,” he says against my lips. “Let’s go home.” 

*** 

At home, we’re on the sofa, sitting in a messy heap together, not doing anything much now that we’ve finished eating. Dinner was takeaway from the Chinese place on the order. I’m full and content as anything to be sitting here with one of Sherlock’s perfectly-lopsided fires burning steadily in the grate across from us. Our legs are tangled together and the news is on, but neither of us is really paying attention. I’m happy to just be holding him like this, my arm around his shoulders, one of his around my back, the fingers of our other hands slotted together however on his thigh, our heads leaning together. It was two weeks ago tonight, I think in slight amazement. Our perfect day: brunch with too many mimosas, a long walk home together on a sunny Saturday in early May, our quiet afternoon in each other’s company around the flat, spaghetti bolognese. And then Sherlock building the fire, sitting back on his heels to watch the wood catch fire and finally take the plunge, breaking the years of silence between us to finally allow us both to say what we needed to say. The apologies, and then the confessions. I think of everything that’s come since, of this struggle to figure out how to open ourselves to each other at last, our adventures in the bedroom and discovering all of that, this incredible strength of love I never thought I’d experience. 

“It’s been two weeks today,” I say, speaking over the news, and press a kiss into Sherlock’s jaw line. 

I can smile his smile against my lips. “I was just thinking that,” Sherlock says. “It seems impossible that it was only as recent as that. It feels like much longer.” 

“I know,” I say. “It really does. It’s still a marvel to me, you know.” 

“To me, too.” Sherlock turns his face toward mine, but instead of kissing me like I thought he would, he looks intently into my eyes. “John – I – I can’t fully express how much this is, to me. It’s everything. You’re everything.”

His words go straight to my heart and turn it into mush. I let go of his hand and put mine on his face. “As you are to me,” I say softly, knowing that I sound like a total cornball, but he’s right, damn it: I _am_ a romantic. At least when it comes to him. “And – for the record, that shit that Horton Ellis said earlier, about me having been married once and not being like you – you know that’s rot, right? I’m exactly like you, at least when it comes to how much I want you and love you and need you.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker between mine, probing as deeply as he can, but then, instead of answering, he kisses me at last, ducking his face in to claim my mouth, kissing me with more passion than anyone else would believe him capable of, but I know better. At least now, I do. We shift in each other’s arms, getting even closer together, legs and arms wound around each other as we kiss, as though trying to fuse ourselves into one person. I can feel his heart beating against mine and think again, Fuck, I’m so in love with him, just so fucking gone on him. My heart is pounding back just as hard. Eventually Sherlock pulls away a little and touches his tongue to his lips, his eyes gone starry. “Take me to bed,” he requests, his voice low and just a bit breathy. “I want to have you inside me. I’m ready at last. I need you. I need there to be nothing that I haven’t given you, no part of myself that I’ve kept on reserve, that you haven’t had.”

My heart swims into my throat and lodges itself there. I stroke his face, loving him so damned much it hurts. “Sherlock,” I manage, touching his mouth with my fingers, “it was never a question of – of holding something back, or having to do this at any point, ever. This isn’t something I need from you. I want you to understand that. I absolutely agree with you that I want us to be together as deeply as is physically possible, but it hasn’t ever got to be that way. If it’s you inside me tonight – or every night – that’s going to be just fine. I just – need to say that.” 

Sherlock nods. “I know,” he says. “But _I_ need it. I need to give it. Do you – understand?” 

I almost feel a little choked up. “Yeah,” I get out. I have no control over what my face and forehead are doing right now. 

Sherlock goes on, touching his nose to mine as he speaks, his voice still intimately low. “No toys. No plugs. Nothing but you. That’s all I want, tonight. I want you to have all of me.” 

I swallow hard and nod. “Yeah,” I say again, and it comes out half-whispered. “Then I want that, too. Fuck – I want it so badly. Want _you_ so badly.” 

Sherlock makes a hummed sound of contentment and puts his mouth on mine again. Somehow we get ourselves untangled and make our way blindly down the corridor to the bedroom, shut ourselves inside, and swiftly – yet incredibly gently, reverently – take each other’s clothes off. There’s an urgency to it, for sure, and yet there’s also a sense that there’s all the time in the world. Still kissing, we get into the bed and move the bedding out of the way. 

I meant every word of what I just said out there, about being more than content to let him be the one to top if that’s what he wants or needs. Forever. It felt absolutely incredible the other day in the kitchen. I was a little sore after, so we haven’t done it again since then, but there’s no doubt whatsoever about my desire to. I still want to, even now. But this – Sherlock deciding that he needs to open that last chamber of himself to me, asking me to take him like this – it’s so fucking special that I’m fucking drowning in emotion. Every touch I make is practically worship, my hands stroking over his skin in my very best effort to show him how incredibly precious he is to me, how much I love him with every cell of my being, body and mind and soul. It is, in every single way, the opposite of that awful day at Culverton Smith’s morgue. Somehow, this time, it feels like these touches are directly undoing those ones, if such a thing could ever be made to happen. I touch him and stroke his skin and caress him, kissing him all the while, then releasing his mouth to let my tongue and lips travel over every inch of his body. I leave nothing neglected – I lick and kiss the angles of his chest and shoulders, bury my nose in the fine hair under his arms and drink in the scent of him. My hands are leaving prints all over him, evidence of my love for him for any forensics agent to find and use as proof. He would like that, I think dizzily, kissing his lithely-muscled belly, my tongue dipping into the perfect hollow of his navel. 

Sherlock is breathing deeply, a bit of voice in some of his exhalations, body writhing against the sheets, his fingers in my hair. He says my name and it sounds like a prayer. “You’re… extraordinary. You make me feel… so loved.” 

My heart is just about cracking open. I look up at him from between his legs. “You are so loved,” I tell him soberly. “I love you so much. So much more than I know how to say, Sherlock. I love every part of you, inside and out.” He gazes back at me, his lips parted, the eye contact so intense that he doesn’t even need to say anything. I nuzzle my nose into the sensuous line of his hip leading to his pelvis and press my tongue to the underside of his balls. He inhales deeply, his cock already flat-up against his body. I drag my tongue up the length of him and trace the delicate ridge of the head, then take his cock in hand and fit my tongue to that beautiful, demure slit of his, tasting the first trace of his arousal. That taste is all mine, I think, gloating privately. No one else has ever tasted this. I take him into my mouth now and feel him grow impossibly harder there. He’s moaning openly now, hips pushing up into my mouth, those long fingers of his gripping at my head. 

“J – I’m – ” Sherlock pants, and I get it and pull off, moving back up the length of his body so that we’re face to face again. 

I smile and nod, taking his head and guiding his mouth back to mine. We kiss hungrily, his cock pushing against my hip as he twines a leg around mine. I reach under the pillows, searching for the lube, and find it easily. I manage to get some onto my fingers with my arms around Sherlock, then slip my hand under his upper leg and begin to massage at the entrance to his body. I’ve only ever had my fingers inside him that one other time, so this is incredibly special. Should probably check-in, though. I wind up the kiss and ask, my own voice rather breathy, “You sure about this? You know it’s never too late to change your mind.” 

Sherlock opens those slanted midnight eyes of his and blinks at me. “I’ve never been surer of anything, John. I want you inside me. _Need_ you – so – please – ”

I nod quickly. “Yeah. Okay. Just – making sure,” I assure him. I kiss his chin, then his neck, and he tips his head back to give me better access, his mouth open. I work my fingers into him slowly, one at a time, and he breathes and breathes all the while, pressed as close to me as he can get. When I add the third finger, it’s considerably tighter and he swallows, but then moans again. 

“Please, John – you can – go deeper,” he says, his eyes squeezed shut, so I move my hand, stretching him out gently and revelling in the heat of him again. 

“How do you want to do this?” I ask him, my voice husky with both lust and emotion now. My cock is so hard for him it’s almost painful, leaving wet smears of arousal all over his belly. 

I don’t know what I was expecting, but Sherlock opens his eyes and says, “I want to see you.” His big hand strokes over my upper arm, as though to persuade me. He moves, dislodging my fingers and turning onto his back, pulling me onto him. “Like this,” he states clearly. He reaches down and closes his hand around my cock, stroking it firmly, which makes me gasp. “Now,” Sherlock says. “ _Please_ , John.” 

The _Please_ is so moving that I couldn’t refuse him if you paid me, not that I’ve got any intention of trying. “You don’t have to ask,” I tell him, feeling swamped all over again by how much he means to me. I give my cock a slick of lube and get it lined up. “I’m all yours, you know. Every single part of me.” 

“John – ” It comes out in a gasp as I push slowly into him, my cock forging the way open despite my attempts to prepare him for it, and Sherlock pants and clamps his thighs around my sides, his long feet hooking around my arse and pulling me even deeper into him. He’s not even trying to hide any part of it from me, his beautiful face stamped with emotion and a bit of pain. “Keep – don’t st – oh – _oh_ – John!!” 

I stop only once I’m all the way inside, waiting for his body to relax around the intrusion of my cock. The muscles of his arse are quivering frantically, which feels so good I could come right now if I don’t hold myself in check. “Okay?” I breathe, cupping his face with my hand. 

Sherlock opens his eyes again and they’re wet. He nods. “I feel – it’s – ”

He stops, but I know exactly what he means. “Almost overwhelming?” I ask, my voice still doing that husky thing. 

“Yes, but – only almost.” Sherlock strokes my arms again. “Kiss me,” he requests, and I do, buried inside him to the hilt. I can feel his body relax as we kiss, and he doesn’t have to tell me when it’s time, our bodies moving in tandem, me a bit carefully as he gets used to it, then moving more and more. 

It’s like being inside some beautiful dream, washed in the golden light of the lamp he left on. I’m moving rhythmically into him, the pleasure so thick I can’t speak, winding around my limbs in cords, pulling me closer and closer to him. We’re both panting and panting, his body gripping my cock so hard I could almost cry with how good it feels. I can feel how good it feels for him, too, his voice rising and rising, almost whimpering as I thrust and thrust and thrust, pounding into him, his legs still squeezing around me, and when I feel the spasm in his arse, I shift my weight onto my left arm and grab at his cock, gripping it feverishly and he comes as though I commanded him to, though we’re both far too gone to form words at this point. His entire body clamps around me and he shouts out, his body arcing out thick, hot jets of release, and the squeezing of his arse around my cock sends me over the horizon. I let go of his cock and grab at his thigh, echoing his shout as I feel myself erupt, flooding him as my body turns itself inside out, golden sensation radiating throughout my frame. I can’t stop coming or shouting, slamming into him, my arse muscles clenching and clenching as my cock spasms hotly into the heat of him. 

I think we must have both blacked out for a moment or two, because when I come back to myself, I’m lying on him like a beached whale, heavy and spent and unable to move. I’ve never felt so good in my life. I’m still inside him, my cock still swollen, but the fever is ebbing out at last. 

Sherlock’s hands are stroking lazily over my back. “That was fucking phenomenal,” he slurs, his _k_ nonetheless as perfect as always. 

“No, you are,” I mumble into his neck. I think I’m drooling. Check: yes, I am. I manage to lift my face and wipe my mouth, then settle onto him again, my arms loosely cradling his head. “I love you. I love you so much.”

Sherlock puts all ten of his fingers into my hair and when he speaks, his voice is as intense as I’ve ever heard it. “I would die if you left me,” he says with complete sincerity. “I mean that, John. I think I would just – dissolve.” 

I lift my head and look down into his eyes, feeling my heart welling out of them. “I will never leave you,” I tell him fiercely. “ _Never_ , Sherlock. Not for as long as I live.” 

Sherlock doesn’t even blink. “Is that a promise?” he asks, and somehow it’s just all out there in the open now. 

I nod, afraid to trust my voice, especially with my cock still inside him. I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say. “It is. I promise that I will never leave you. Not unless you want me to, which I devoutly hope you never do.” 

Now he does blink. “Why would I do that? How would that even be possible?” 

He’s completely serious and it makes me want to laugh and cry and hug him for ten years straight all at once, and suddenly I think, fuck it. So what if it’s only been two weeks. We’re _there_ , damn it! “Sherlock,” I say, stroking his face again. “There’s only one thing left to say that hasn’t been said yet, and honestly I’ve been trying not to say it too soon.”

Sherlock looks very slightly worried. “I know,” he says. “I’ve felt it. That there was something more.” 

I realise my weight must be pretty heavy, and now my cock is starting to feel too sensitive, so I say, “Hang on.” I pull out as gently as I can, feeling the wash of my own come coming with it. “Do you want a flannel or something?” I ask, not wanting to interrupt myself but trying to be considerate. 

“No,” Sherlock says intently, as we shift onto our sides, arms around each other, faces close together on the same pillow. “Go on with what you were saying. You were going to tell me what you’ve been keeping to yourself.” 

I smile into his eyes and feel that same lump come into my throat. I’m one thousand percent sure about this. There’s nothing in the world I want more. That I’ve ever wanted more. “I want you forever,” I tell him softly. “I want a future with you. I want the danger and the quiet moments both. I want the brunches and the dinners and the weekends with Rosie. I want weekends and holidays away with you. I want to spend weekends out at your parents’, go to Rosie’s matches and concerts and graduations with you, want to retire out in the country one day with you. I want to marry you, lay proper public claim you for all the world to see. I want to do this forever. There. That’s what I’ve been trying to make myself hold back, Sherlock. I just thought maybe it was too soon to say it, but I can’t not say it right now. I love you and I want you forever. There’s nothing in this life that I’ve ever wanted more.” 

Sherlock swallows, inhales unsteadily, then says, “You already have it, John. I’m yours. Forever. And if that was a proposal, then – yes. Absolutely. Yes!” 

I say his name and clutch him to myself and can’t deny that there might be tears, but that’s okay, because I’m pretty sure that Sherlock’s eyes aren’t dry, either. Fuck it, we’ve earned them, I think, as we rock each other, nothing held back, no more façades or trying to filter anything. There’s no need to be cautious anymore. We’re a unit now and we’re in this for good. The book of silence has come to its end.

It’s time for us to write a new book. 

*


End file.
